100 Mother and Daughter Moments
by Fic Fairy
Summary: 100 separate, non chronological, peeks into the relationship between Olivia and her mother. Desperately seeking both feedback and one word prompts to use as chapter inspiration so please R&R!
1. Hypocrisy

**Hypocrisy**

_Whatever you condemn, you have done yourself. ~Georg Groddeck, The Book of the It, 1950_

I know I won't be sleeping tonight. No way. No how. Even were it not for the huge sense of responsibility on my shoulders, I wouldn't sleep anyway. The guilt, the deep, dark, all consuming sense of guilt, not to mention fear, wouldn't allow me to, instead gnawing away at me, at my conscience, at my very being.

My fifteen year old daughter is sprawled on her bed, her vest top riding up in a way that makes me feel physically sick, her jeans clinging to her baby girl curves in a way that does likewise. Her mascara has run, and there's vomit in her hair. The stench of alcohol is coming from her like she's been bathing it. In short, my little girl is drunk out of her mind.

Any other parent might be angry. And you know what, I was. In the beginning. When I answered the door to our apartment and found my daughter there, being propped up by the father of one of her friends, clearly completely off her face, I was furious. Incandescent.

Not that I let it show. My whole life has been about keeping up appearances, and so I thanked Mr Jones politely, and brought my daughter inside. Then? Then I let rip.

To begin with, she took it. Then after a while, she seemed to tire of my ranting, pushed past me, walking unsteadily into the living room and crashing down onto the sofa before being violently sick on the floor. I followed her into the room, ignoring the vomit and carrying on my tirade.

Again, she accepted to begin with, more focused on trying to stay upright than my words, but then, slowly, she looked at me, and it seemed like the points I was making were sinking in. And they were. Just not in the way I'd hoped.

She looked at me coldly. Like she hated me. Stared me right in the eyes.

"I was at a party. A party with people."

She let the slurred words hang in the air only momentarily before she slumped forward towards the coffee table to pick up a half empty scotch bottle I'd been working my way through earlier that evening. The look in her eyes told me what she was thinking, so I wasn't surprised when she unleashed it.

"How many people at your party mom?"

I could have got angrier still, but I chose not to. 3 months earlier I might have done, but I'd been seeing a counsellor, and we'd talked a lot about taking responsibility for my actions. Losing my temper with Olivia, even if she deserved it would really, truly only be a way of diverting attention from my own behaviour and in spite of how she was acting, it still wouldn't have been fair. Instead, I sat beside her, and tried to be honest with her.

"I was just having a drink Liv. It's Friday night."

She looked at me, struggling to focus, although suddenly her ability to speak and on target accuracy when it came to being completely vicious was right on target, "Every night's Friday night for you mom."

I couldn't argue with that. Yeah, I'd been in counselling lately, but I was a long way from being off the wagon. But then again, actually, that was the whole point. That was why I was so concerned. I tried to explain that, but Olivia, my drunken little headstrong princess was too out of it to listen.

"I'm not like you." She spat at me, "I didn't drink tonight to hide from who I am. Because I'm too pathetic to cope with my own life. I was partying mom. So get over it."

I can tell what you're thinking. You're wondering why a grown woman would take that kind of abuse from her daughter. You're wondering why I haven't long since put Olivia over my knee and given her a complete hiding.

The answer is simple. Simple and straightforward. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it is. The truth is, that just as she spat all the bile and hatred inside her at me tonight, so I've done the same to her in the 15 years that have led us to this point. And like with her this evening, I only have myself and the demon drink to blame for all of it. For the nights I've abused her verbally, neglected her emotionally and generally been a lousy mother.

So tonight. It was just payback.

That didn't stop it hurting though. Or scaring me. It was frightening on so many levels. I hated that she could be so cold, so unfeeling, that my little darling had become such an angry young woman, not least because she reminded me so much of myself. Bitter. Furious at the world. That was the last thing I wanted for the little girl whose hair I used to braid and who I used to tuck up into bed with a stuffed bear. Not all the time, I can't claim that, but I did do it, sometimes.

Then, there were all the things that I knew could happen to her in that state. She was dressed like a tart, and in the condition she was in, anyone could have taken advantage of her. And that was far and away the last thing I would ever have wanted for her. I'd been there. Done that. Knew how bad it was.

Finally, there was the simple truth that she was the daughter of a drunk, and science says that kids with those genes just can't do it, can't risk it. Any drinking at all was quite frankly tempting fate, but being so drunk so young. It was just asking for trouble.

But even as I tried to talk to her, gently, calmly, tried to explain to her why I objected to her behaviour, she wasn't having any of it; drunkenly tossing her hair in a way that only a teenager can and eyeing me like I was a particularly unpleasant looking bug that she'd quite like to squash.

"You," she said, getting to her feet, swaying as she did so, "can lecture me, when you can look at me like you love me without pouring a drink; when you hug me or hold me without drinking half a bottle of vodka first; when you start acting like a proper mom." Her words hit me where it hurt, but even the verbal onslaught wasn't as bad as the sad look in her eyes that I knew that I'd put there with my own behaviour, my own actions.

So that's why, tonight, I'll sit with my little girl. I'll wipe the sweat from her forehead, and make sure that she doesn't choke on her own vomit. And tomorrow, when she's in the grips of her first ever hangover, I'll do everything I can to help her.

How could I not? Because, at the end of the day, she's a product of the upbringing I've given her. Because, at the end of the day, this is all my fault. And if I don't take care of her, what kind of hypocrite would that make me?


	2. Intuition

**Intuition**

"_A mother understands what a child does not say." Jewish Proverb._

They meet in a classy restaurant, in a 5 start hotel, in Manhattan. Her mothers choice. Olivia doesn't truly understand why, although she knows its part of the pattern. Always the best for mama's baby. Ironically. Considering everything, not least the fact that she'd be just as happy in a cosy little Italian or bistro or something. This is too much, especially after a crazy day at work. She feels overwhelmed, and underdressed, and of course, her mom has to comment on the latter.

"You don't wear a suit to work these days?"

She shakes her head, laughing slightly, wondering how many vics, witnesses and perps she'd get to open up to her if she ditched the street clothes for the kind of designer threads her mom would put her in. Very few she suspected.

"But you're enjoying your work?"

She can hear the guarded tone to her mom's voice, and she knows why. They had the discussion - argument - whatever - when she'd first discovered that her transfer to Special Victims had been accepted. Her mom had instantly expressed concerns about everything from the kind of people she'd be mixing with, to what her motives were for taking the job; impressively, Olivia thought, without mentioning her own past or Olivia's parentage.

And so, she nods hesitantly, forcing a smile, "Yeah. Its real good. Rewarding." She leaves that particular point at that, not seeing the need to share with her mom how satisfying she finds it to put each and every bastard perp away, and how worthwhile it feels to provide help and support to the victims.

"And the people you work with? They're nice?"

She picks up her napkin, starts to fiddle with it, feeling awkward although she's not really sure why. She smiles at her mom and then nods again, "Yeah. They're great." Her mother looks at her expectantly and so she feels obliged to offer up more details about the squad. "The Captain is great. And there's Munch. He's," she thought briefly, trying to decide how to describe her several times married, absolutely paranoid colleague, "quirky. And Monique's nice and Cassidy seems ok. Yeah. They're lovely."

Her mother's eyes narrow suspiciously and Olivia wonders what she's said to earn herself such a look, only realising when she is hit with a particularly pertinent question.

"Which one of those is your partner?"

She bites her lip nervously, again finding the cloth napkin to be the most interesting thing in the world, folding it one way and then the next, anything to avoid looking at her mother. "None of them. He's called Elliot."

"He?" Her mother doesn't sound in the least bit surprised, and when Olivia looks up she's not exactly taken aback to see her smirking slightly. She steels herself, knowing instinctively what is being implied and not liking it in the slightest.

"Mother…" she says warningly, but said mother is having none of it, already off on one.

"Mother nothing Olivia." She retorts firmly, "You've got that same stupid look on your face as you did when Mr Stevens taught you math in 7th grade. You're mid crush and there's no point denying it. Not to your mother."

To an extent, Olivia is unimpressed by the scene her mother is playing out in front of her, as indeed she always is when she insists on playing super mom and pretending she knows her so well when the truth is that she's spent such a vast proportion of her life being too drunk to recognise her, let alone knowing or understanding what was actually going on in her head, but, at the same time, she has to admit, her mom is actually getting something right.

"He's just really nice." She murmurs still staring down at the napkin, picturing her partners kind smile, beautiful eyes, and rippling physique although she's not about to share that with her mother "I like him. As a person."

"As a person?" Her mother nods knowingly, "Is that so?" She lets Olivia nod and a beat pass before asking a follow up question, "He's married I presume?"

Olivia feels her back stiffen. She hates her mom when she gets like this. All knowing, all seeing, too motherly, too protective. It might be justified with other mothers and other kids but not with them. She looked after herself too long for her mom to start trying to be helpful now. She glares at her, "Yes, he's married. But I don't think its relevant. He's just my partner."

Her mom smiles, but not so knowingly this time, perhaps guessing how much she's upsetting her and not wanting to labour the point. That said, she can't resist adding some final words of wisdom on the subject.

"Of course Olivia, and I'm completely teetotal. Just be careful darling, I don't want you to get hurt."


	3. Genetics

**Genetics**

_I do not believe we can blame genetics for adultery, homosexuality, dishonesty and other character flaws - Jerry Falwell_

Serena was sat on the couch in the den when Olivia arrived home, giving her daughter little to no hope of avoiding her and shielding her ripped blouse, bloodied nose and black eye from her view. Serena knew it, and mores to the point, Olivia knew it, throwing her keys down on the counter and then stepping into the room and into her mothers intimidating glare.

"Well?" Serena said questioningly, and then sat back, waiting for her daughter to explain herself.

Olivia sat down beside her mother, a sulky expression on her face.

"This principal called you?"

Serena nodded, "He did. Told me my daughter had been brawling in class. What's wrong with you Olivia?"

Her daughter glared at her, through an eye she could now barely see through. Serena got to her feet, heading to the kitchen and returning with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel which she handed to her daughter to use as a cold compress. Then she sat back, waiting for an answer to her earlier question.

"Genetics. Genetics is what's wrong with me."

Serena felt her heart sink. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting Olivia to offer up by way of an excuse - some kind of a spat over a boy maybe - but anything would have been preferable to that. To 'genetics'. It was the 'get out of jail free card' that she'd hoped her daughter would never dream of using, certainly not at the age of 14.

But, as she was then to discover, Olivia wasn't making excuses, and genetics wasn't an excuse, it was an explanation.

"We were talking about genetics. In science class." She took the peas away from her eye for a moment and looked at her mom, "Suzie Chesterton said that cheats give birth to cheats, and liars give birth to liars, and queers give birth to queers."

Serena held her hand up to stop her daughter in her tracks, "Gay people darling, not queers." It was a moot point, and one that was rather pointless, but if nothing else it stalled the conversation slightly, because she had a good idea where it was going and she wasn't sure she was ready to face it.

Olivia shrugged, "Fine, gay people then. Stupid either way. Gays can't have kids." She was chewing her bottom lip nervously and Serena was convinced she knew the reason why. She got to her feet, went to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a large measure of Scotch, "What else did she say?" She kept her back to her daughter, not wanting to see her face as she said 'it'.

"She said rapists father rapists."

There was a long silence, where Serena sensed she should be saying something helpful, but failing to find the words instead just knocked back her drink instead, before turning back to her daughter, although keeping her gazed fixed anywhere but her face; the wallpaper, the ceiling, anything to avoid looking at her. Eventually she found words. Not satisfactory ones, but words all the same.

"That's ridiculous darling. You shouldn't listen to a word she says."

"I didn't." Olivia said, plainly, simply, "I just thumped her."

And although Serena was furious with her daughter for getting sent home from school and appearing with a perfectly decent shirt ripped to shreds, she almost wanted to applaud the truculent little madam for putting bigoted Suzie Chesterton in her place. That said, once she'd poured herself a second drink and turned to face her daughter again, the last thing she needed to see was what she did.

The tears.

She sighed, "Olivia. Stop it. Pull yourself together."

Her daughter sniffled, as said tears trickled down her cheeks. "I got suspended mom. For three days."

Serena sipped her drink, "Well what do you expect darling? You assaulted a fellow student."

More sniffling, more tears, which in truth were starting to grate on Serena. Olivia was very good at feeling sorry for herself when it suited her, she never took into account what effect her little sulks were having on her. It wasn't like she'd really needed the genetics debate thrust in her face any more than Olivia did. Less so in fact.

"The principal said I'm a bully. That I'm aggressive and that I do stuff without thinking." Her daughter let out a sob, then dropped her bombshell, "I am like 'him' aren't I?"

It was the 'him' that did it, that resulted in the second drink being tipped down her throat and a third following. It was hard enough having to face the child he'd left her with every day, without said child ramming the existence of the bastard down her throat courtesy of her teenage angst. She looked at her daughter,

"You'll only be like him if you let yourself be." She said, coolly and calmly, but she could see the hurt in Olivia's eyes so turned away again, heading back to the drinks trolley, the whisky, before telling her harshly, "Go to your room."

"Mom…" She was still whinging, crying, making a show of herself. It was pathetic and Serena had reached the point where she couldn't face another minute of it, "Get to your room. Now."

She heard footsteps behind her, and when she turned round the room was empty. Good. Just the way she liked it. She reached out, picked up the bottle of liquor, taking it to the sofa with her.

It was going to be a long night.

*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***

In her room Olivia tossed herself down on her bed, the cold hard words of Suzie, the principal and her mother flying around her head, torturing her, hurting her, making it impossible for her to breath. Before she knew it, she was sobbing, consumed by it all. Drained by it all.

It had always been like this. Ever since grade school, kindergarten even. She'd never fitted it. She'd been the dirty one, the one with no daddy, the one whose mom was never sober, the angry one, the one kids whispered about in the halls. And now this…

And the worst thing was that no one fought her corner, no one looked after her, no one was there for her when things got really bad. And why? Because the one person who should have been doing those things was the woman in the den, the woman who as she cried was climbing into the whisky bottle.

The woman who should have loved her, but who, thanks to genetics, was the one who hated her most of all…


	4. Love

**Authors Note - Thank you to all who are reading / have reviewed and to FTVW for the prompt for this one. Just to give you some idea of the method behind the madness, for each of these the prompt word goes into google followed by the word quote, I chose my favourite quote out of the one that comes up and that inspires the story. Halfway through this one I nearly abandoned it because I couldn't see any love in it, but Serena rescued it in the end!**

*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU **

**Love**

_Love is staying up all night with a sick child - David Frost_

The disruption was niggling, but persistent. An endless prod in the side and whimper in my ear. So persistent, so niggling that even though my head was spinning and the thought of opening my eyes made me want to vomit I knew I had to, if only to shut up the cause of the assault to my senses. I forced my eyes open and then winced as both they and my head were immediately battered by the bright lights of my bedroom which apparently I'd forgotten to turn off when I'd arrived home a few hours before.

I dragged myself up to sitting position, made myself focus, looking around for the source of the soft sobbing that was echoing in my ears and drilling at my brain. It didn't take long for me to find it, tugging, as it was, on the satin skirt of the cocktail dress that I seemed to have fallen asleep in.

And sweet Jesus, never have I sobered up so fast.

Her little face was red and swollen, her neck likewise, and she was shivering violently although when I reached out to touch her forehead I realised she was burning up.

I pulled her to me, at which she started to cry harder. She looked up me with the big wide eyes and then croaked out three words that even in my semi drunk state broke my heart.

"I'm sorry mom."

I knew why she was apologising, deep in the recesses of my pounding head, but some how, I had to do it, had to ask. Had to make it that little bit worse for myself.

"What are you sorry for sweetie?"

"I'm sorry I woke you." She could barely speak she was in so much pain, "I'm sorry mom. I know I'm not 'sposed to."

Yeah. That's the kind of mother I am. The kind of mother who puts the fear of god into her 6 year old daughter to an extent where she's scared to wake her when she was sick. The kind of mother who has a 6 year old daughter who knows not to disturb me when I come in drunk after a night out.

With the guilt threatening to consume me, I picked her up in a way I haven't done since she was a child. Well baby. Once she could walk I stopped carrying her because - well - drinking like I did, it was better not to. But right at that moment she needed me, so I carried her to the kitchen, sitting her on the counter and stepping back to look at her, taking in once again the swelling around her face, the shaking, and realising for the first time that her pyjamas were soaked through.

I yanked open the cupboard where we kept medical supplies, and located a thermometer which I popped into her mouth before going into the den to retrieve a medical encyclopaedia which I kept for emergencies like this. I had a pretty good idea what was wrong but I wanted to make sure. I took the book back to the kitchen, not wanting to leave Olivia alone for too long, and then compared the pictures in the book to the way she looked, getting an instantaneous match.

"You've got mumps." I turned my attention back to the book, trying to read the section on treatment, but the words blurred, as bile rose up my throat. Reading and alcohol clearly didn't go together. I passed the book to Olivia, "What do we need to do sweetie?"

She took it from me, scanning the page, looking for words she knew. Eventually she found one.

"Ice." she said, as she took the thermometer from her mouth and handed it to me. I glanced at it, just about managing to read the scale, and feeling my heart sink. 103 Fahrenheit. With a fever like that, no wonder her dress was wet.

I moved over to the freezer, taking out a tray of ice. It wasn't hard to find since there didn't seem to be much else in there. I looked over at my daughter, "Is tomorrow shopping day?"

She was still peering at the book, but nodded in response to my question. "Yeah." she whispered, "Thursday is shopping day."

It sometimes feels like my daughter runs our house, aided and abetted by Rosa, our lady who does. Our lady who does pretty much everything actually. Its not my fault, I mean I work, but it did make me feel bad sometimes.

I wrapped the ice in a tea towel and handed it to Olivia who looked at me questioningly. Although she was sick I couldn't help feeling a little bit irritated by her response. Her teachers tell me she's a bright kid, did it really have to be that complicated? I took it from her and held it first to one side of her face, and then the other. "You see?"

"Thanks mom." She nodded, smiling weakly at me, and I felt guilty for being so irritable, it wasn't her fault that she was sick, anymore than it was that I was in the horrific place between drunkenness and hangover. She pointed at the book, "Its says I should have Tylenol." See, like I said, bright kid. How many 6 year olds do you know who could have read that? I opened the medical supplies cupboard again and found a bottle of Tylenol Junior. Which was empty. Bloody Rosa. I was muttering about her competence under my breath when Olivia started to cry again.

"Mom, its not Rosa's fault." That's my girl. Good hearted, always ready to carry the can for anyone, although usually me. I went to tell her that it didn't matter but it turned out she wasn't finished, "I took it earlier. While you were out. I felt sick."

My eyes narrowed, wondering whether to believe her. After all, Rosa wasn't known for her sloppiness but at the same time I think I'd rather have a sloppy employee than a self medicating 6 year old. I looked at her questioningly, "You took it yourself? Where was Amy?"

"She was watching TV. I didn't want to bother her."

I was tempted to break into a rant about the babysitter, but if I was honest, that was my daughter all over. She wasn't good at asking for help. Still, if that was anyone's fault, it was mine.

I glanced at my watch, "When did you have it?"

Olivia bit her lip, looking at the clock on the kitchen wall. "I think the big hand was on the 9. Or maybe it was the little hand." She started to cry again which I put down to her being sick, because to be honest crying wasn't her style She was too much of a little tough nut for that. "I can't remember."

Realising I wouldn't therefore be able to medicate her - even if I had had medicine she could take - I decided the best bet was a cold bath, the ice packs and bed, so sent her off to the bathroom, promising to catch her up. Once she was gone, I reached into the medicine cupboard again and took out a couple of aspirin for myself, washing them down with a measure of scotch from a bottle on the side.

Again, I know. I am a lousy mother. But its just such a huge responsibility having a sick child, and I panicked. Plus I was feeling so unbelievably sick, so I thought the drink might help quell that so I could get on with looking after my daughter. I knocked the drink back and made my way into the bathroom where my little girl was sat, shivering in a cold bath, and crying like she was never going to stop.

"Don't cry." I said, awkwardly. I know it sounds crazy but I've never been very good at saying the right thing to Olivia. I want to be a good mom, but it doesn't come easy to me; I don't know why. Maybe it's the drink, or how she was conceived, I don't know. The truth of the matter is that I find it hard enough to deal with my own needs, my own emotions, without trying to do the same for her.

Olivia looked at me, tears trickling down her cheeks, "I feel so bad mom."

I smiled at her in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, "You'll be ok. You just need to get some sleep."

"Can I sleep in your bed?"

I froze at her words, struggling to know how to respond. I'd never let Olivia sleep in my bed, not even when she woke with night terrors, for one reason and one reason only. I have night terrors of my own. Have done ever since the rape, the night she was conceived. I'd never wanted her to be exposed the way I toss and turn and scream in my sleep, in part because I knew it would scare her but also because I knew that one day she would find out the truth about where she came from, and I didn't want her to think back and remember the nightmares and realise how much it still effects me.

That said, how could I say no to her when she was sick and scared? Slowly, I nodded, wondering if I could pop a couple sleep meds and wipe out the nightmares that way. But there were no guarantees, and plus if I put myself out, who would take care of Olivia if she got worse?

I sighed, "Ok honey."

My words must have comforted her because her tears dried up and by the time we got back to my bedroom she was calm again. I helped her get settled on one side of the bed, before sitting beside her, and wiping her legs and arms with a facecloth I'd brought from the bathroom. I leant over, kissed her forehead, testing her temperature with my lips, "You're cooling down. I think you're going to be ok. You just get some sleep ok?"

"Are you going to sleep?"

I shook my head, knowing I couldn't, not if I were going to avoid waking her with a nightmare. Feeling like I did, it wasn't an attractive prospect, but I didn't think I had much choice, not if I was going to be anything close to resembling a decent mother to her. "I'm going to sit up with you, make sure you're ok."

And that was precisely what I did.


	5. Illegitimate

**Authors Notes - TFVW, this is another one of yours! Everyone else, watch this space cos you've made some excellent suggestions!**

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**Illegitimate**

"_There are no illegitimate children - only illegitimate parents." ~Leon R. Yankwich_

"You'll get rid it of it."

Serena shook her head, "I'll do nothing of the sort."

There was long, awkward silence. Her father just stared at her from the head of the table, unable to believe she was disagreeing with him, disobeying him, while her mother sat simpering to her left, not having the fortitude to speak up. So nothing new there.

"It," Serena said calmly, "is your grandchild. And my child. And I'm keeping it."

"It's a bastard."

She shook her head incredulously, "From inside my womb, she's calling you something quite similar." she turned to her mother, "Excuse me, I've lost my appetite." She pushed her chair back, got to her feet and without another word to either of them, walked out of the room.

She as she walked down the hall outside of the dining room she could hear them talking about her, and about her news, in hushed tones. Their response was no surprise to her. They'd not exactly been pillars of support following her rape 2 months earlier. Oh yeah, on the surface they'd been supportive, but she could tell how embarrassed they were about the whole thing. Her father hadn't looked her in the eyes since it happened.

Until tonight. When she dropped her bombshell.

God they were morons. So, yeah, it was a shock to them, but how did they think she felt? She was pregnant. With her rapists baby. She knew it was a long way from being an ideal situation, but what was she meant to do? Just get rid of it because it suited them… suited her even… what about the baby? Didn't it deserve the chance to live? To breathe?

She ended up out on the patio, rolling herself a joint. 'Mama' and 'Papa' weren't wild about the whole drugs thing but they could whistle. She wasn't big on the whole them being morons thing. She'd just got her joint rolled, lit and was inhaling deeply when her mother appeared.

"Serena." She said sharply, finally finding her voice now HE wasn't around, "Put that thing out."

She wasn't feeling cooperative, so turned to her mother and looked at her disparagingly, "No. It's the," she made speech marks in the air with her fingers, "swinging sixties, everyone's doing it."

"Everyone else isn't pregnant." Her mother came and sat beside her, "Everyone else isn't responsible for helpless baby growing inside them."

It was a pointless argument. A stupid upper middle class authoritarian argument. There was no proof that marijuana harmed babies. It was just a scare story. They'd be warning against drink and tobacco next. Besides which….

"What do you care? I thought you wanted her dead."

Her mother shook her head, "No. We just want you to be sure you're capable of dealing with this."

Serena got to her feet, not yet stoned enough to let her mothers words just wash over her, "Mama, I was raped. I coped with that. This -" she touched her stomach, "this will be a walk in the park."

"You coped?" Her mother looked at her questioningly, "Then why does your father have to draw black lines on the bottles in the liquor cabinet every time you visit? And why are you smoking that," she gestured to the joint in Serena's hand "poison? And why do I feel like I don't know my own daughter any more?"

She couldn't bring herself to answer her mothers questions, finding them rude and offensive and actually, deciding it would be best to hit them head on. Defensively. After all, she was the one under attack,

"I don't know. Ask me in 7 months when I'm the best mother in the world and can tell you exactly where you went wrong."

There was a long silence, a long break in the conversation and then her mother spoke again, "Fine. Or else, in 9 months times you can finally explain it to me when I end up holding your baby because you can't cope with the fact that she has his eyes."

Now that was a turn up. Not her mother's usual style at all. Obviously the knowledge that she was going to be the grandmother of an illegitimate little bastard had toughened her up. Pointlessly toughened her up mind you, because she was talking rubbish. It wasn't going to be like that. Not for Serena. And not for baby Olivia.

Olivia. She smiled at the very thought of it. The name meant 'peace' and that was what her daughter was going to be. Her way of finding peace after everything that happened to her. And, if she was a boy, she - sorry - he would be Oliver. Because that meant peace too. Either way she had it sussed.

She opened her mouth to explain that to her mother but to her surprise she'd already gone. Well, that just showed how much she cared about her daughter and grandchild. Charming.

She rolled another joint, started to smoke it, staring up at the sky, just imagining she and the day when she and her baby would be together. It was comforting thought, a nice thought. It was never going to be like her mother said. The baby would never look like him. God wouldn't do that to her.

She was in a good place. A happy place. And then her father's voice came crashing into it,

"Your mother told you I'd find you out here."

She looked at him. Coldly. Coolly. Stubbornly. She knew what he wanted and there was no way in hell she was going to change her mind. Apparently though, controlling bastard that he was, he was going to try.

"People will talk Serena."

She shrugged, because she didn't care. So what. She'd been given a baby, and even if, ok, she didn't exactly like the way it had gotten there, she wasn't going to let that fact get in her way just because other people didn't like it.

There was another awkward silence, as was becoming customary during conversations with her parents, and then, eventually he spoke to her again. She didn't answer straight away, unable to believe what she was hearing but when he repeated it a second time, there was no doubt in her mind.

"Did that man really do as you said? Or did you claim as such because you knew you were pregnant?".

"That man," She replied, near to tears suddenly, but still determined to say it, determined to ram the words down his throat, "RAPED me. How can you ask if I lied?"

He sighed, "Do you blame me? Considering the fact that you want to keep his child." she supposed he had a point actually, it wasn't an ideal set up, but all the same, she'd thought about it, long and hard. She knew what she wanted. She just had to convince him of that. And that was going to be harder than she thought.

"You're one of these flower power people." her father said, eyeing up her caftan that truth be known she'd taken to wearing since the rape because it was baggy, and disguised the curves that had got her into trouble in the first place, "You're involved in the women's liberation campaign. Surely you'd be at the front of the queue to get rid of a child you don't want?".

He definitely had a point there. Serena had been pro-choice before it had even been an fashionable. But that didn't mean she wanted it for herself. She forced herself to look at him, wanting to make him understand.

"Maybe I should be. But I can't papa." She put her hand on her stomach again, taking strength from it, from her baby, "My baby deserves the chance to live, no matter how hard it is for me. I won't make her pay for the sins of her father… I can't, no matter what you think. I'm sorry."


	6. Rage

**Rage**

"_The abandoned infant's cry is rage, not fear." - Robert Anton Wilson_

I was in a bar when I found out, at the bar itself in fact. I was with some guys from my squad, washing down a grim day on the streets with a beer or six when I became aware of a body pushing up behind me and two strong arms trapping me against the bar.

I didn't bother to turn round. I knew who was responsible. And I was pissed at him. Playfully pissed, but pissed all the same.

"You're late O'Grady."

"You're hot Benson." I felt his lips brush against my neck and knowing Preston O'Grady like I did I knew that if I let it continue we'd be practically fucking on the bar within minutes. I pushed backwards, turning to face him,

"You're still late. Your beer went warm." I handed him a bottle from the bar, "Enjoy."

He drank from it, taking half of it down in one go, then turned his attention back to me, pulling me to him and groping my ass as he did so. None of the cops around us paid much attention since it was nothing out of the ordinary. O'Grady and I had become 'friends with benefits' when we were at the academy together, and although we'd been assigned to different precincts, we'd been enjoying those benefits ever since, no matter who was watching. He leant inwards, brushing his lips against mine, "Forgive me? I would have been on time but I got a last minute shout."

"Anything interesting?" Working in different parts of town he and I ended up trading cop stories nearly as frequently as we traded sexual favours. Little did I realise how badly that was going to pan out for me on that particular occasion.

O'Grady shook his head, "Nah. Complaint of noise coming from an apartment on Lexington, some drunken lush had taken twenty too many sleeping pills with her stereo on at full whack."

I knew instantly that it was her. Sure, she wasn't the only drunken lush in the city, probably wasn't the only one who lived on Lexington, but my gut told me instinctively that she was the one in question.

"Where on Lexington?" I asked O'Grady, trying to keep the tone of my voice level to hide my desperation from him. O'Grady didn't know about my mother and I planned to keep it that way.

If my question puzzled him, he didn't let it show, instead getting his notebook from his pocket and flipping through it until he found what he was looking for, "Building 125. Just up from 28th Street. I called for a bus, got her taken to hospital, left the medics searching for a next of kin and made my way straight here to you sexy girl."

I didn't stop to explain, instead I pushed him away and dashed from the bar.

If she wasn't already dead, I was going to kill her myself.

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I walked to the hospital. I could have got the metro, or hailed a cab, but I needed the time to cool off.

She'd really done it this time.

Wasn't it enough that I'd spent my childhood taking care of the two of us? All the times I'd made my own breakfast, or helped her into bed when she was too intoxicated to walk. I'd done everything I could have done and more, and this was how she repaid me. By resorting to this.

I think it was the timing that got to me most of all. I was fresh from the academy, bright eyed, bushytailed, loving each and every minute of it. I'd never been happier. And she knew it. Was that why she was sticking the knife in? It sure felt like it. Apparently I wasn't allowed to be happy.

I thought I was calm by the time I arrived, even managed to start to feel sorry for her as I searched the emergency room looking for her. But then, when I pushed back the curtain to her cubicle, all that went out of the window.

She was laying on a gurney, IV in her arm, a vague smile on her face.

So nothing new there then. It had always been that way. She self medicated with prescription drugs and alcohol, she got to escape, I didn't. I got the pain and the guilt and the shit.

There was a nurse with her and when my mother noticed me she turned to the woman, her silly smile intensifying. "This is my daughter. She's one of New York's Finest."

I felt the rage building in me at her words. This was the woman who had missed my graduation from the academy. Who couldn't bear to look at me most of the time, and now she was bragging about me. I couldn't help it, before I knew what I was doing I heard the sound of the slaps ring out and my hand began to sting, as my mother clamped her hands to her cheek, a stunned expression on her face.

I should have felt guilty. But I didn't. I felt good. It wasn't nice, but then neither was what she had done. Wrong it might have been, but I felt it was justified.

The nurse apparently however didn't agree with me, positioning herself between my mother and I, glaring at me viciously.

"I don't care if you're the Police Commissioner of the whole NYPD young lady. You do not go around assaulting my patients."

I opened my mouth to retort but my mother beat me to it, "Its ok. I understand why she's angry."

And yes, she was defending me, and yes, I should have been grateful for that but actually her words angered me all the more, and I rounded on her angrily once again.

"No mom. You don't understand. How could you understand? You have no idea what its like to be me right now? I've just been told by cop in a bar that my mother took an overdose. How do you think that feels mom?"

She looked at me, looking like a chastised puppy, "Darling, it was an accident. I didn't mean to…"

The lady doth protest too much. I picked up her chart, and glanced at it, confirming what I already knew before looking back up at her, snarling angrily, "You took 20 pills mom! Now I know you spend a lot of your days seeing double but I doubt even you could be that stupid… or drunk. You did it on purpose!"

She didn't argue a second time and I took that as my cue to ask the questions that had been whirling around my head during the walk to the hospital.

"Is this because of me? Because I'm not home as much?" I was asking in part out of guilt, in part out of resentment and in part out of curiosity. As traumatic as my home life was growing up I'd always been there because I knew my mom needed me, but since I'd been on the job I'd been there less and less; between the shift work and the nights, and the nights I'd been spending with O'Grady, I was very rarely home.

"I miss you baby."

I felt physically sick at her words. Other mothers might have lied, tried to protect their offspring, but not my mother. It was all about her. It always had been. I think that was why I reacted as I did, with anger again, and not guilt.

"Well that's very odd." I threw her chart down on her bed, my voice raising in volume the angrier I got, "Because 9 nights out of 10 when I was home you were too pissed to acknowledge my presence."

The nurse stepped between us again, "That's enough."

I shook my head, "Oh no. I'm just getting started." I turned on my mother again, "I can't be at home every night mom. I'm on the job now, it's a different life and besides that, I'm not a kid any more. I have a life of my own. Friends, Boyfriends."

Her eyes clouded at that and I know I should have stopped there and then. If there was one thing my mother didn't need ramming down her throat it was my love life. Correction, sex life. Sex was always a sticky subject with her. But I was fired up, I wasn't prepared to stop.

"That's right mom. I'm having sex. I like sex. And I'm going to carry on having it no matter how many overdoses you take. Because I'm not going to end up lonely and alone like you."

I paused for breath then, and that was the moment I realised I'd gone too far. It may have been verbal and not physical but my mom looked like I'd slapped her all over again.

God I felt like a bitch. We'd had a lot of rows over the years, vicious rows but I didn't remember ever throwing her single status at her before. After all, it was fairly obvious why she was single, after what my father - although I was loathed to call him that - had done. I looked at her, my rage subsiding as the guilt came fully in to play.

"I'm so sorry mom."

She reached out, took my hand, and the mere sight of her bony hand, complete with IV needle wrapped around mine was enough to move me to tears. Without the anger to keep me warm, I broke down, as tears started to trickle down my cheeks.

"You could have died."

"I know honey. And I'm sorry too." Mom smiled again, but there was more to it, like the verbal battering I'd given her had sobered her up a bit. She squeezed my hand reassuringly, and I knew instantly that my outburst had been forgiven. Christ knows why, but it had. All the same, I started to apologise again, needing to say it again, even if she didn't need to hear it, but I didn't get chance. Mom was already changing the subject.

"So Miss Olivia… tell me about this boyfriend…"

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	7. Manners

**Authors Note - This little example of 'how not to bring up your daughter' comes courtesy of a prompt from brit10brat! Hope you like it! **

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**Manners**

_The hardest job kids face today is learning good manners without seeing any ~ Fred Astaire_

Olivia was quiet. Which, Serena knew, was never a good thing. It generally meant that her daughter was brooding, or working up the courage to ask a pertinent but awkward question, or a combination of the two.

She glanced at her from the drivers seat of the car, watching as she stared out at the New York streets. She was tempted to ask what the issue was rather than just sit there grimly trying to second guess it, but decided better of it. Perhaps if she ignored the difficult silence that was filling the car, they'd arrive home and she'd make the child go to bed before she got round to saying whatever it was she was building up to.

They'd travelled only a minute or so more however when she finally found the courage to say what was on her mind.

"Anna's family sit at a table to eat."

Dear God. She was a funny little thing sometimes. Serena glanced looked over at her again, "And?"

"And we don't."

"Olivia." She said sharply, too tired after a long day at work, which had been combined with a particularly grotty hangover, to cope with her seven year old being ridiculous, "What on earth are you talking about?"

"We don't sit at a table to eat. I sit on the floor in the den."

Well, Serena supposed she had her there. Olivia generally spent her evenings with babysitters, because she had to socialise a lot for work. There was always a college fundraiser or a function to attend, or even just late lectures. She couldn't always be at her daughters beckoned call, and quite frankly, if the babysitters chose to let her sit in front of the television to eat, it was hardly her problem.

Besides which, it wasn't like she'd never seen a dining table. Olivia had been dining at some of Manhattan's finest restaurants virtually since she'd first been able to manage solids. There were maitre d's in the city who greeted her by name so really, the concept of sitting at a table to eat shouldn't have shocked her.

Serena said as much, but Olivia just stared back at her, looking confused, "But that's just in restaurants mom. I didn't know people ate at tables at other times."

Serena loved her daughter dearly but she was grating on her at that moment. She was clearly in attention seeking mode. Still, that was hardly a surprise. Serena had had her doubts about her going to play at her new little friend's house in the first place. They lived their life quite happily in their own way and the last thing her daughter needed to see was a "normal" family, a "nuclear" family in action. She'd suspected that seeing a conventional mommy, daddy, 2.4 children set up would mess with her head and it looked like she'd been right.

She turned to her, keeping half an eye on the traffic so as to avoid causing a road traffic accident whilst dealing with her erstwhile daughter, "Olivia, where do you eat lunch at school? On the floor?"

Her daughter shrugged, "No. But that's school. That's not home. I thought you could eat how you liked at home."

Serena rolled her eyes. It was like talking to a brick wall. "People sit at tables Olivia. I don't think we need to make a song and dance out of it."

Olivia stared down at her hands, silent once more. Serena hoped that that would be the end of it because really, it was just too much, but then, as they pulled up outside their building, she started all over again.

"Anna's father said 'Grace'. Like at school. I didn't know that people did that at home. I started eating before he'd done it. Anna's brother laughed at me and said I had bad manners."

"Well I think that laughing at someone is bad manners." Serena said, desperate to draw a line under the conversation because she had a pile of work to do and therefore the last thing she needed to be doing was engaging with a seven year old on the art of good table manners. She got out of the car, handing her keys to the valet and then waited for her daughter to join her on the sidewalk.

"I picked my plate up to drink my gravy."

God. She was STILL on it.

"Then he laughed at me again."

Serena sighed, grabbing Olivia by the arm and dragging her up to the apartment, and into the den. She glared at her, which was unnecessary in hindsight because her daughter just sat on the couch, completely silent, obviously not going anywhere. She left her there and went into her study, locating two books on her bookshelf and returning to the den with them.

She tossed the first, a guide to etiquette that her mother had given her years back to prepare her for being "a lady", down on the couch next to her daughter.

"Find the section on good table manners in there and read it. Any words you don't understand look them up in here." she handed her a dictionary, "Any words you still don't understand, ask your teacher tomorrow." she turned on heel only stopping momentarily at the door to give her daughter her parting shot, "I don't want to be disturbed. I've got work to do…"

There. Problem solved.


	8. History

**FTVW's prompt! Bit different this one! Hope you like it!**

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**History**

_I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past. - Thomas Jefferson _

He appeared in the squad room about a week or so after my mother's death. I was at my desk, head down, trying to block out everything but my work. Trying not to think about everything that had gone down in the last week or so. It might sound harsh or callous from a 'grieving daughter' but I wasn't just any grieving daughter and putting my back up against my work was the only way I knew to get by.

Then he appeared. I heard him before I saw him. Elliot had met him at the door, and he asked for 'Livia' Benson. I knew then it was him. No one else had ever called me Livia. Only him.

I looked up and reluctantly made my way over to where he was stood, huge bouquet of flowers in his arms. He clucked over me as I approached, in the way that people who are older than you think they have the right to when they've known you for any length of time.

I kept my distance, keeping Elliot between he and I and looked at him questioningly, "James." My tone was cool, too cool actually, I was coming across like a bitch, but then, he deserved it. "What are you doing here?"

He pushed his ostentatious bouquet into my arms, muttering something about being sorry for my loss. God I'd heard that one a few thousand times in the past week, and it didn't get any easier to hide the smirk it prompted. My loss was very little truth be known, and James knew that as much as anyone.

I mumbled a thank you for the flowers - although to be honest I was tempted to shove them straight back at him - and then made out I had work to do and tried to walk away, only stopping when I found I had to because he wrapped his hand around my wrist and wouldn't let me go. Elliot, who was still stood at my side, moved forward to step in, but I shook my head. This one was mine to deal with.

I pulled my hand away and glared at him, "I'd like you to leave."

He sighed, "Livia. Please. It was a long time ago. I'm clean now." he gave me a watery smile that made me want to punch his lights out, and when he spoke again I came incredibly close to doing so, "Your mother would want us to be friends."

I snorted, "Then that sounds like all the more reason for us not to be." I turned on heel and walked away and by the time I reached my desk and sat down, he was gone again.

Elliot came to my side, "Who was that?"

I didn't really want to get into it with him, but I didn't see as how I had much choice, not since he was stood there hovering, looking so concerned. I stared down at the flowers on my desk, not wanting to look at him, not wanting him to see how much the visit had affected me. "Just an old friend of my mothers."

"I see. Nice of him to come and pay his condolences." Elliot replied, but from the tone in his voice I could tell that he knew that actually James' appearance in the squad room hadn't been nice, not in the slightest. And boy, he wasn't wrong there…

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"Mom? Can I talk to you?"

She was in her study, and usually I wouldn't have dared disturb her while she was in there. She'd retreat there for one of two reasons, to drink, or to work, and I never liked to put myself between her and either of those things. I knew, or at least hoped, on that particular occasion that she wouldn't be drinking, but all the same, I knew I was pushing my luck by approaching her there.

"Of course darling."

I know what you're thinking. I was pretty stunned myself. But she'd emerged from rehab, although not for the first time, just a few months before, so I guess she'd turned over a new leaf. I made my way into the room, perching nervously on the edge of her desk, and she stopped working and looked up at me questioningly,

"What is it Olivia?"

I took a deep breath, wondering if I was doing the right thing. To be honest, I wasn't actually sure I was. Like I said, mom was fresh out of rehab, the last thing I wanted to do was do or say anything that might set her back, but what I had to say was important and so, in spite of my fears I decided to plough on.

"James was here when I got in from school today."

Again she looked at me questioning, "And?"

"You gave him a key." I regretted everything about what I'd said the minute I said it. I sounded whiney and accusative, and like a brat. Not my mother's favourite qualities in anyone, least of all me, by a long shot. She glared at me,

"And? This is my house young lady."

Yeah, I thought, and its my home. A home where I should feel loved and comfortable and safe.

"He touched me mom." I blurted the words out, wanting to get them into the open before I changed my mind about telling her. A long frosty silence followed as she just looked at me, a look of distain on her face. And then finally, she found some words to respond.

"He did what?"

I'd lost her. I knew that instantly. From her tone of voice and the expression on her face. Gone was the warm, smiling, post rehab mother, the one with the "darlings" who was willing to make time for me. I'd pushed my luck and she'd been replaced with the one I'd known all my life. The one who was likely to go rushing back to the bottle at any minute. I wrapped my arms around myself, "It doesn't matter. I'll go."

"You will not go!" she reached out, grabbing me by the wrist and yanking me back so roughly that I feared my arm would come out of its socket. "You'll stand here and you'll explain yourself."

I didn't dare argue with her, so I stood in front of her, my eyes fixed on the study floor as I told her what he'd done.

"He touched me here." I pointed to my breasts, cringing, anticipating a less that supportive response from her, "Through my top."

She snorted, "Dear God, 16 years without a father really has done a number on you hasn't it. You wouldn't know fatherly affection if it slapped you around the face."

I'll tolerate a lot from my mom, I always have, but the insinuation that I didn't know the difference between "fatherly affection" and being groped was a step too far. I looked up at her, my eyes blazing, "He's not my father! He's just another drunk you got it on with at rehab. Or rather didn't get it on with!"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but I didn't care at that point, I was already in full flow, "He wanted sex with me because you won't put out mom. He said he needed me to satisfy his urges because you wouldn't."

Her face went tight then, became unreadable and I knew I'd hurt her. But I wasn't going to put up with being sexually harassed in my own home just because she couldn't face the truth.

And facing the truth was not my mother's forte. Not by a long shot. Not where her precious James was concerned, "James wouldn't do that. He understands my situation. He's kind and patient, and he wouldn't behave that way."

But I'd lie about it. Because I was that kind of girl. That kind of daughter. The kind who would pretend she'd been assaulted to her rape victim mother. The kind who would deliberately try and wreck the nearest thing her mother had had to a relationship in 16 years. The kind who didn't want her mother to be happy.

She must really have hated me.

I sighed, "Mom, if it makes it any easier, he was drunk."

She looked at me coldly, "Now I know you're lying. He's sober." I thought it was rich that she was asking me to believe that. She'd been 'sober' plenty of times herself, but it had never lasted long. Not long enough anyway. Why would her 'boyfriend' be any different? Still, there was no point in arguing with her. I'd been a fool to believe that she'd ever believe me in the first place.

I shrugged, "Fine. I'm lying. Forget I ever said anything." I turned on heel and walked away, and that time she let me. I went to my bedroom, jammed a chair under the door handle so no one - James namely - could get in, and fumed quietly to myself until eventually I fell asleep.

The next morning the spare key was back on the hook in the kitchen where it had always lived, and although I knew he and my mother stayed in contact, I never saw James again until that day in the squad room.

Obviously, somewhere deep down inside my mother had believed me, even if it had just been a niggling doubt that a fraction of what I'd told her was true. She'd believed me, and had wanted to protect me but she'd never been able to say it to my face. Never been able to admit that I'd been telling the truth.

And that was what hurt the most of all.

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"Do you want to talk about it?" Elliot asked, breaking into my thoughts.

I shook my head, as I reached out for the bouquet and dumped it my trash can,

"No thank you, its ok. Its history, and I'd rather keep it that way…"

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	9. Teacher

**This one is a prompt of my own, and I suspect we've not seen the last of this guy because I've fallen in love with him! **

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**Teacher**

"_The best teachers teach from the heart, not from the book" - Author Unknown_

and also;

_"You've got that same stupid look on your face as you did when Mr Stevens taught you math in 7th grade. You're mid crush and there's no point denying it." - Serena Benson, 100 Mother and Daughter Moments, Chapter 2 - Intuition _

Parent, teacher and student conference night. Greg Stevens scanned down his list of appointments. The evening was almost over, and he just had one left.

Liv. Liv Benson.

Teachers weren't meant to have favourites but had he been allowed, Liv would have been his. She was a smart cookie, but one who had shown no real aptitude for his subject in the past; the test scores in his predecessors files indicating little more than a mid range ability, but he'd gotten more out of her, and even more satisfyingly for him, ignited her passion for math.

His colleagues in the department had warned him of the dangers of getting too involved with her, and to a degree he could see where they were coming from. Teenage girls were notoriously tricky once hormones came into play, and he wasn't an unattractive man. Plus, his golden girl had grown up without a father, making her, if you believed the opinion of the staff room, a prime candidate for Lolita type behaviour. Not that Greg listened to the gossip. When he looked at Olivia he just saw a girl who was craving affection of any kind, and yeah, sure, she'd been wearing more and more make up since he'd been teaching her - something he always turned a blind eye to since she'd obviously gone to so much effort - but while it might have appeared to outsiders that she had a crush on him, he viewed her attachment as something far more harmless.

She just liked the fact that he made time for her.

Which was one of the reasons why he was so keen to meet her mother. There were rumours around the faculty about the family; the absent father, the mother's long working hours - she was apparently notoriously hard to contact and the feeling was that her daughter had to stand on her own feet a lot of the time. But she was also, by all accounts, a respected academic at a local university so no one felt it appropriate to rock the boat.

He though, was getting the impression from his dealings with Liv, that there was much more to it. She hadn't said much, that wasn't her way, but there was an obvious strain on her face sometimes, and just the week before she'd come close to breaking down during a one to one coaching session. She hadn't revealed why, and he'd not felt able to push her to open up, but she'd seemed so tired and distracted even before she got upset that he'd been convinced there was something going on.

And once he met Mrs Benson he knew precisely what that something was.

She stumbled into his classroom, her daughter in tow. Liv met his eyes before they'd even sat down, an apologetic look on her face and when he leaned towards her mother to shake her hand he discovered why, as the distinctive smell of alcohol assaulted his senses.

His professionalism didn't allow him to comment though, so instead he just invited them to take a seat, which they did, before Mrs Benson looked at him curiously, like he was an exhibit in a museum, "So you're the famous Mr Stevens." she said, slurring her words, which having been breathed on by her came as no surprise. There was an implication to her words, but again he let them slide, turning his attention to the real purpose of them being there.

"So," he said, glancing down at his mark book, "Liv's doing fantastically." he smiled at his student who beamed back at him. Her mother however was less genial.

"Since when is it customary for academic staff to refer to their students by nicknames?" She asked, coldly.

Liv's cheeks flushed red as she jabbed her mother in the ribs, and he cursed himself for making such an obvious error and causing her embarrassment. "We have two Olivia's in the class." he said, hoping the explanation would satisfy her and congratulating himself for thinking on his feet. Unfortunately, Mrs Benson remained unimpressed.

"Does the other Olivia dress like a tart too? And cover her face in muck?" was her crisp response, "Or is that why my daughter gets the over familiar name?"

"Mom… please…"

His heart went out to the girl. If this was indicative of her home life then it was little wonder she craved his attention, and would do anything for a kind word or some company. He turned to her mother, "Mrs Benson, your daughter is bright, committed, hard working and is achieving at a high level. Her work this year has been outstanding." he fought the temptation of add, "in spite of an apparent lack of maternal support" although he was sorely tempted. "So," he said instead, "if you have no further questions, I suggest we leave it there."

Mrs Benson nodded curtly, "Fine by me. You're obviously not looking further than her feminine charms anyway. This is the problem with young men teaching. Its inappropriate." she looked him up and down and tutted, "its no wonder my 13 year old has had her head turned. I have pairs of shoes older than you." she got to her feet, clicking her fingers, "Come on Olivia."

"Can I have a word before you go Liv?" The words were out of his mouth before he could question the wisdom of them, prompted purely by how crestfallen his student looked. "I want to discuss the assignment you handed in today." he added, wanting to give some sense of legitimacy to his request, although, actually, when it came down to it, her mother didn't object anyway.

"Fine. I'll wait in the car." she said, before adding bitterly, "I'm obviously not needed here." and then she was gone.

He looked at Liv, reaching into his pocket and handing her a handkerchief, just as a tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away furiously, clearly embarrassed, so he didn't mention it instead turning his attention to another point of concern,

"The car? Tell me she's not driving…"

Liv shook her head, "No. We have a driver."

Well that was something, because they clearly needed one. He glanced towards the door of the room, and seeing no one approaching reached for her hand, "She's drunk. Does that happen a lot?"

She shook her head again, "No. She had a luncheon at work today. That's all." The words tripped off of her tongue but too easily, so he didn't believe them, not for a second.

"If she drinks Liv," he said gently, there are things we can do. Help we can get you." he remembered the look on her face as her mother called her a tart, "You don't have to put up with this."

"I do." she wouldn't look at him as she said it, but he could make out tears forming in her eyes again, "She's my mom, and she's had a hard time." she lifted her eyes then, using them to plead with him, "Don't make a fuss. Please. I'm fine."

He was torn. On one hand he wanted to get straight on the phone to Children's Services and get her the assistance she so obviously needed, but at the same time he didn't want to stir up more difficulties for her. The last thing she needed was to end up in the care system.

He got up from his desk and moved around it, giving her a hug and breaking every rule in the book as he did so. It didn't matter though, not really. He was only giving her what she needed. What every little girl needed and he suspected she'd never had.

"Ok Liv. I'll keep this between us." he reassured her, "But only if you promise that you'll talk to me. I'm your teacher yeah, but if you need a friend too, I'm it."

She smiled, the same smile that she gave him every time he afforded her any attention. "Thank you." she pulled out of his embrace, "I should go. I'll see you tomorrow Sir."

He squeezed her hand, already worrying about what she was going home to, "Absolutely."

She got to the door, stopped and then turned back, "You said I was outstanding." she said hesitantly, "Did you mean that?"

He nodded, "Of course."

And he meant it. On that evening's evidence, Liv Benson, was one of the most outstanding young women he'd ever met.


	10. Sunshine

**This is a funny little mishmash. Its not exactly what I set out to write but it just ended up this way! Serena's softer, and Olivia is… well… Olivia (FTVW, I do believe the word is 'stroppy') and this is 'Sunshine' thanks to a prompt from Emily92.**

**Note - Could be slightly triggering in places. **

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**Sunshine**

_If you want to see the sunshine, you have to weather the storm - Frank Lane _

The last time she'd been this terrified was when he raped her. Brutalised her. When he'd held her by the throat and forced himself inside her. Quite literally actually, given her current predicament.

But this, she had to keep telling herself, wasn't like that. That was something that should be frightening. This wasn't. This was just a small hurdle towards something wonderful.

She lay on the trolley, gripping its cot sides, staring up at the ceiling. Telling herself not to be so scared. Then her doctor approached her, peering down at her and she started to feel terrified all over again.

"Are you ready? Its time."

She nodded, but as the anaesthetist approached she had to fight the urge to scream. She didn't know if she WAS ready. She'd been living for this moment for so long, and now it was here she didn't know if she could do it.

All those harsh words her parents had thrown at her came back to her. The times they'd told her she was making a mistake, that she'd never cope with being a mother. And actually, it was good that they came back, because rather than compounding her fear, they made her rise up against it. She WAS ready. She could be a good mom. And she would be.

Soon.

She nodded again, more firmly the second time, more committed to what she was agreeing to and the anaesthetist placed a mask over her nose and mouth.

"Just relax Miss Benson…"

Relax. That was a good one. The most significant moment; well most significant _good_ moment of her life so far, and she was being told to relax. Impossible. She was too keyed up with the anticip…

That was as far as she got with the thought. And then it all went black.

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She was on campus. Walking. She had her books in her arms. She looked down at herself, at her clothes. Purple mini, little white top, purple boots.

She wanted to scream, but she couldn't.

She knew those clothes. She remembered them all too well. How they'd looked before and how they'd looked after. The top had ended up ripped, stained with blood from her nose when he'd hit her, and the skirt.

Oh God, the skirt.

Covered in him. From where he'd pulled out of her, even though it was too late and they both knew it.

This couldn't be happening. Not here, and now. She didn't even understand what she was doing back there. She shouldn't be there. She should be somewhere else. She had something else to do, something important.

Was she even there at all? After all, she didn't remember getting there. Maybe she was imagining it, or dreaming. Yes, dreaming made sense. She tried to force her eyes open before she could hear the footsteps, that she knew were due, coming up behind her, but she couldn't do it. And then, it was too late…

"No!" she cried out as she felt him grab her, but no sound came out, the scream was an internal one, deep inside her. And then, it began to unfold, just like she remembered. He pulled her into an alleyway, yanked her thick fabric hair band down from her hair to her face, and tightened it, using it as a gag to stop her screaming. He ripped the buttons from her top, pushed her bra aside, biting at her flesh as his knee was already pushing her knees apart.

She didn't fight it. There was no point. She knew what was going to happen. She'd been here before.

The pain. Her insides feeling like they were being ripped apart.

It hurt. It hurt so badly.

And then, nothing.

The darkness again.

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Light. Bright light. Light like she'd never seen before. It hurt her eyes so she screwed them up tightly, a natural reflex that made the light go away.

She didn't know where she was, or what was happening. She'd been ok before. In the warm, in the dark. She'd felt safe. Protected. She missed where she'd been. Missed the special sound that used to send her to sleep. It was a constant humming. It was always there. And then sometimes, there was singing too. Pretty songs that made her sleepy.

And now they were gone. She was cold and scared. She didn't like the bright lights or the unfamiliar sensation of being held.

It felt wrong. It made her want to cry out.

And so, she opened her mouth, and as she took her first breath in the 'outside world' Olivia Benson began to scream.

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The darkness was replaced with images. Still pictures that she just looked at like a bystander. Her body, laying battered and bruised in the alleyway. Waking up in a hospital bed. Her parents disapproval.

Her parents always disapproved. They disapproved of her rape - as if she'd approved it - but then that figured. They'd disapprove of anything that made the neighbours talk.

That jogged her memory, the neighbours talking. She'd done something else to make them talk. But what? It must have been bad, real bad, because her parents were barely talking to her anymore. She was alone. She'd been alone that day when she'd arrived…

Where had she arrived?

She wracked her brains, trying to remember. She needed to know. Needed to know so she could shut out the bad things. She was sick of the bad things. Sick of her life being a never ending round of thunder and rain clouds. She needed something to make it better.

There was something. But what? What the Hell was it?

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She opened her eyes to find sunlight beaming into the room. The hospital room. Last time she'd woken up in one of those it had been raining, but not today. Today the sun was shining.

A nurse came over to her, smiling down at her. That was different too. Everyone had been so serious and solemn after her rape, but now they were smiling.

"Miss Benson, congratulations."

Suddenly she remembered. The baby. She looked around and saw a small plastic cot beside her bed, and inside was the tiniest, most perfect looking baby in the world.

Her baby. Only hers.

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Olivia was pissed. She was lying in a goldfish bowl, wrapped in a rough blanket that hurt her skin. She'd not signed up for this. She wasn't sure what was happening or what the people thought they were playing back but she wasn't having it. She wanted to go back where she'd came from. Immediately.

Just when she thought things couldn't get any worse she was pulled from the goldfish bowl and back out into the cold air. Which was, she thought, getting boring.

She opened her mouth to scream again, which even at just a few hours old she'd decided was very satisfying, when she found herself being placed in a nice warm pair of arms. She cuddled closer and she could hearing the humming sound again.

It was like coming home.

There were other sound too though. Words.

"You don't look like him."

She didn't know them though. Didn't understand what they meant.

Then came words she did know. A tune she knew.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are grey, you'll never know dear, how much I love you, so please don't take my sunshine away."

Oooh. Nice. Too nice. They made her sleepy. She closed her eyes, and then it was dark again.

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She couldn't believed how quickly the baby had fallen asleep when she'd started to sing. How quickly Olivia had fallen asleep.

Olivia. Her baby.

She couldn't believe she had a baby either really, not when she thought about it. After everything, all the hurt, all the pain, she had a baby.

Finally, after all the storm clouds, the sunshine had arrived.

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	11. Family

**A/N - Prompt for this one came from **madeleine68 **so big thank yous for that**. **Quote is a favourite of mine. Mothers are a sore point right now so expect this fic to be flowing like Niagara Falls. And El and Liv have asked me to apologise for how tactile they are in this chapter - its all down to interpretation though so I'm blaming Serena for making it worse than it is!**

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**Family**

_Friends are the family we choose for ourselves - Edna Buchanan_

I'll never forget the day I realised I'd lost my daughter forever. It was a Sunday afternoon in Central Park. We'd not planned to meet, we rarely did really. I occasionally would feel some maternal guilt and take her out for dinner to assuage it, but generally she kept her distance. It wasn't that we'd argued particularly, there'd been no one incident that had left us estranged, we'd just drifted apart.

I was jogging. I've always exercised, it's a compulsion, an addiction for me, like the alcohol but more healthy. I like the sense of control it gives me, as opposed to the alcohol which does quite the opposite. Usually I work out at the gym, but it was a sunny day so I thought I'd make the most of it, and blow off the cobwebs of the previous evening's drinking spree. And it wasn't just me who'd decided to take advantage of the fine weather.

I caught sight of her before she saw me. She was stretched out on the grass, wearing a pretty maxi dress, bottle of beer in hand, leaning into the arms of an attractive looking man and laughing happily.

I can honestly say that I'd never seen my daughter look so relaxed and content. She was picture of happiness, and I couldn't help feeling a pang of regret that I'd never been able to make her look that way.

I moved closer, pondering the identity of the gentleman who was holding her. She'd not mentioned a boyfriend when we'd last met. In fact, at the time, she'd seemed wholly consumed by her work to such an extent that I couldn't imagine when she'd have had the opportunity to meet a man.

Ah. Suddenly it hit me. I looked at the scene again, noticing for the first time that they weren't actually alone, and in fact were a party of five, sat around a picnic blanket. They were five very different looking characters, but I suspected they all had one thing in common. They were detectives, and he wasn't Olivia's boyfriend, he was her partner.

Elliot Stabler.

I'd never met him, and I'd been told little about him, but mother's intuition had told me that he was someone very special to my daughter, even before that day. Just looking at her, laughing in his arms as he affectionately wiped something from the corner of her mouth told me everything I needed to know.

Well, almost everything. From the distance he was at I couldn't see his wedding ring, but I knew there was one. Typical Olivia. Always wanting things she couldn't have.

I was tempted just to jog on, but I'll admit my curiosity was piqued. I'd had so few opportunities to meet Olivia's friends over the years - my fault I knew - that I didn't want to pass up the chance, and so I jogged over to them.

"Olivia?"

"Mom?" Her eyes flew upwards to meet my own, a stunned - if not slightly guilty, understandable given her antics with Mr Wife and Children - expression on her face. She pulled herself from her partner's arms, looking more than a little uneasy.

I smiled, "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

"Well… yeah… ok." It didn't escape my notice that far from being the relaxed, happy girl that she'd been as I'd watched from afar, she'd tensed up considerably. She glanced round the circle awkwardly, "This is my mom."

One of the men from the group got to his feet, holding out his hand for me to shake,

"Nice to meet you Ms Benson. I'm Don Cragen, Olivia's on my squad." I shook his hand and there was an awkward silence as he looked to my daughter. It didn't take Einstein to work out what he was 'asking' her with that look. He was clearly the old fashioned gentleman type whose gut instinct would have been to ask me to join them but, it appeared, his fatherly concern for my daughter was coming first. I was surprised if I was honest. It never occurred to me that Olivia would have discussed her relationship with me with anyone, least of all her boss.

In response to his silent enquiry Olivia nodded at him, but I could see her reluctance in her eyes. And so, when Don invited me to join them I shook my head.

"Oh no, I won't intrude. Not at all."

I did genuinely mean it, but I presume, from the way Olivia rolled her eyes that she thought I was playing the martyr in some way.

"Mom." she said, in the plain talking way that was her all over, "Just sit down. You're here now. You may as well meet everyone." I sat down on the picnic blanket, uttering something about it only being for a second or two but she wasn't listening, already moving onto her introductions.

"The Captain you've met. This is Munch, conspiracy theorist extraordinaire," she said, pointing to the grey haired man at my side, before addressing him, "And Munch, she's my mom, so no proposals ok?" there was a humour to what she was saying but the joke didn't reach her eyes, such was my presence unsettling her. She moved on round the circle, "Fin Tutuola. Newest member of the squad. And El," she paused, and I caught her eye, amused by her use of a nickname for her partner - considering her boss was there, she wasn't acting terribly professionally, and she must have thought so too because she quickly corrected herself, "Elliot. My partner."

I smiled genially at the assembled group, "Well, it's nice to meet you."

"You too." It was Fin that spoke. "And it appears Olivia gets her looks from her mom eh?"

Olivia's eyes met mine again at that point. She knew as well as I did that she'd matured to look very little like me and considerably more like her rapist father. We'd had enough arguments on the subject over the years, something which she'd clearly discussed with her partner given the way his hand crept onto her shoulder in the seconds that followed.

Perhaps sensing he'd made a faux pas, Fin endeavoured to change the subject, although unfortunately for him crashing from one awkward topic to another, "Would you like a drink? Some chicken?" he indicated the tub of fried chicken that they were sharing, but it was his initial offer which proved the sticking point as Olivia glared at me, a definite air of "Don't you dare" in her frosty stare.

And yes, I know who I am, I know what I've subjected her to, but I won't be told what I can and can't do by the child I've raised and so, somewhat pettily I reached for one of the beers in the middle of the picnic blanket, "Thanks. Don't mind if I do."

"MOTHER!" If the glare was obvious, her furiously intoned exclamation was further more so, and she must have realised as much because when she spoke again her tone was softer, and less hell bent on making me look like an idiot, "Mom, you're jogging. You'll dehydrate."

I flipped the cap, and opened my mouth set to argue with her but I didn't get the chance before the one they called Munch cut in, "Its just one. I'm sure she'll live."

He may have sounded like he was on my side but I was watching the eye contact, taking in the body language, hearing the tone, and it wasn't hard to see that his actual intent with his words was to placate and reassure my daughter. Apparently she'd not kept the details of our rocky relationship on a high level when she'd confided in her colleagues; she'd spelt the whole thing out in glorious Technicolor.

Marvellous. Just what I wanted. To be sat round with a group of people who barely know me but know that I like to drink. I wondered exactly what she'd told them on that subject. Was it just that I liked a scotch or two, or had she got closer to the bone?

The answer I suspected was sitting in front of me. In the shape of Elliot Stabler and the way his hand, complete with wedding ring (I could see it now), was caressing my Olivia's arm, as his other arm snaked its way around her waist. It wasn't necessarily sexual, in fact, it probably wasn't at all on his part. He was just taking care of her.

They all were, in their own ways. Her Captain had obviously stepped into the shoes of the father she never had. Munch had the air of an uncle with a favourite niece. And as for her partner? Well, I just wasn't going there. It was pretty obvious what he was to her.

And it worked both ways. I could see the new boy looking at her apologetically, the pieces of the puzzle obviously having fallen into place for him, but Olivia was quick to reassure him, reaching out, taking his hand and squeezing it; supportive big sister to younger brother.

Suddenly uncomfortable, I necked my beer, even though I knew that in doing so I would just confirm everything Olivia had ever told her colleagues about me. I didn't much like it, but I wasn't about to leave a half empty bottle behind - I just didn't work that way - and I needed to get out of there before the feeling of melancholy inside me got any worse.

Bottle drained, I got to my feet and looked round the circle awkwardly, "Well, it was nice to meet you. I should go." Olivia didn't argue a second time, probably, I thought because she suspected that if I didn't leave I'd sit and work my way through every bottle of beer they had. Instead she just smiled thinly,

"Bye mom."

The others said their goodbyes to me too, and I took off across the park, not stopping until I was shielded from their vision by the large trunk of a tree. I stopped behind it, and looked back over at them. They'd picked right up where they'd left off. Olivia had relaxed all over again, was happy and smiling.

And why wouldn't she be?

She was with her 'family'. The family I'd never been able to give her, and now she'd found for herself.

I just hoped they'd look after her.


	12. Period

**Period**

**By Fic Fairy**

"_Buy a cake and share it with family or close friends."- Judy Blume's suggestion for how a girl should celebrate her first menstrual period_

Serena was pissed off. She was meant to be lecturing on the Ideological Apprenticeship of Sylvia Plath, and what was she doing? Running around her daughter's Middle School looking for the little madam crying wolf.

She had the call a couple of hours before, but had been unable to get out of a prior commitment. She'd not been overly concerned since she was sure the school nurse would keep her eye on Olivia until she arrived. If it had been that urgent or that desperate her assistant would have said so.

In any event, Olivia wasn't even in the nurses office. The nurse hadn't seen her all day, and that had only irritated Serena more, until she'd asked at the school office and found out where her daughter actually was.

And that had pissed her off even more.

She strode down the corridor, clocking the room numbers, already planning what she'd say to the little toad when she saw her.

Finally she found the room, recognising it from parent / teacher conference night. She couldn't believe the cheek of her child Surely she'd raised her better than that. She flung open the door without knocking and marched straight in.

HE was sat at his desk and had the audacity to put his finger to his lips as she entered. Telling HER to be quiet! It was unbelievable! She looked around his classroom and that was where she found her, curled up on the floor by his desk, cushioned by the material of a fleece jacket - his presumably, her own coat laid over her as a blanket, fast asleep.

She swung round, facing him, "What is this?"

Again he held his finger to his lips and when he spoke it was in a whisper, "Ms Benson, Olivia doesn't feel well."

"Well that I know!" she snapped crisply, "But that doesn't explain why she's not with the school nurse."

"She was too embarrassed to go to the school nurse. She had stomach pains. She's menstruating."

Serena was close to breaking point. She wasn't sure what offended her more. The fact that her daughter had had her dragged away from a lecture for nothing more than a little period pain or that she'd seen fit to confide in her sexy young male teacher rather than the school nurse. She didn't know what her daughter was playing at but she didn't approve. Not the in the slightest.

She looked at him disparagingly, "And?"

He sighed, treating her like she was the idiot instead of him, ironic considering the way he'd been suckered in by Olivia's attention seeking ways, and got up from his seat to go and crouch down by her in a way that was wholly inappropriate since he was her teacher.

"Ms Benson. Its her first time. It's a lot to come to terms with."

His words cut deep. She knew all about the rite of passage that was a girls first period. She lectured on it for Gods sake, not to mention the years she'd spent worrying about this particular moment. Her daughter… fertile… it just didn't bear thinking about it. All the same, she could have done without the histrionics. She looked at him coldly,

"I'm sure she'll live Mr Stevens. It happens to us all. And she's a late starter, she's been lucky."

He reached out and stroked her daughter's forehead, making her want to slap him all the more, "She's in quite a bit of pain."

Serena looked at her daughter, sleeping soundly. Clearly she was in SO much pain. Or not as the case may be. She moved towards them, clapping her hands, "Olivia! Wake up!"

Olivia woke with a start, immediately reaching out for and grabbing her teacher. It made Serena feel sick. If she carried on looking for attention that way she was going to get herself into a lot of trouble. She strode forward and jerked the girl from his arms.

"OLIVIA!" she snapped, "Get up! And pull yourself together. You're being pathetic."

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She hated how her mom was being. So cold, so rough. But all the same nothing hurt like the searing pains in her stomach, that somehow were managing to run all the way from there right up to her neck, and then down to her toes. In the fog of the pain she looked to the only person who she knew she could trust.

"Mr S…"

She knew she was being whiney and pathetic but she couldn't stop herself, no matter how cross she knew it would make her mom.

Mr Steven's reached out for her, but it was too late, her mom had already jerked her away.

"We're going home. Come on."

The last thing she wanted to do was go with her mom. She knew she wouldn't be sympathetic and kind. Not like Mr Stevens had been.

She knew it was crazy, going to a male teacher with such a personal female problem, but she hadn't want to go to the school nurse, or anyone else. She didn't trust anyone like she did Mr Stevens. He was always so nice to her, so kind. Even at that moment with her mom creating he was kind.

"Remember what I said yeah? Lie on a heating pad, or make a hot water bottle. Just rest ok?"

She nodded, fighting back tears, and thanked him for being so nice to her. But it didn't matter, he didn't hear because her mother had already dragged her out of the room. She tried to keep up, she really did, but before too long the pain came back again and she ended up bent double, crying out in agony.

"Olivia!" There it came again, her mother, disapproving, angry, shrill. She didn't want to argue with her so she just dragged herself, clutching her stomach, until she reached the car and fell into it crying.

That was when she felt her mom watching her. Then they came, the cold harsh words,

"You've got 40 years of this to look forward to, so get over it."

She stifled her sobs as they pulled out of the school parking lot, although the pain just kept getting worse. She wished they'd never called her mom. She wished she could have stayed with Mr Stevens. At least he looked after her.

Halfway back to the apartment, they pulled up outside a drugstore. Her mom got out but Olivia just sat, waiting, doing as she was told. When her mom returned she shoved a bag onto her lap, and when she peered inside she saw it was full of towels and tampons. Her mom had never discussed them with her, but she knew what they were, and what they were for. She looked at Serena, "Thank you.".

Her mother just shrugged and then reached into her pocket, pulling out a little rectangular box. She knew what they were too. People talked about them at school, laughed about them.

Serena looked at her questioningly, "Do you know what these are?"

She nodded and seconds later found said box dumped unceremoniously in her lap. She looked at her mom, her eyes wide, not knowing why she'd been given them, "Why have you given me condoms?"

Serena rolled her eyes, "Because Olivia, you're now capable of getting pregnant, and I'm telling you now young lady, you're not bringing a baby into my house. So you use a condom, or you face the consequences, understand? One bastard under my roof is enough."


	13. Birthday

FTVW gave me the prompt for this one (and found me the quote too) so a big thank you for that. 13 down, 87 to go!

Please keep the reviews coming, I'm loving reading them!

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**Birthday**

_A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun. Enjoy the trip - Author Unknown_

Olivia polished off her slice of toast, checked her watch, picked up her book bag and headed into the hallway. Her usual routine at the start of a usual day, perfectly timed to ensure that she arrived at university with enough time to spare to grab a coffee before her first lecture of the day. She'd just reached the front door and put her hand on the handle however when she heard a voice behind her.

"Olivia?"

She turned, surprised, to see her mother stood in the doorway to her study. The apartment had been so quiet that morning she'd assumed she had already left for work.

She glanced at her watch again, "What?" Short, to the point, but then she had somewhere to be.

"Thursday. Your birthday."

Typical. Absolutely typical. Virtually the first time in her whole life that her mother had given an ounce of thought to her birthday before the day itself and it had to be when she was meant to be out of the door and onto the subway.

"I thought we could have some people over."

Well, this was an interesting development. People over? Like a party. She'd had one birthday party in her entire life. She'd begged and pleaded for a Sweet 16th and regretted it later when her mother had organised a surprise bash with a guest list consisting solely of HER friends and colleagues. And actually, as she reflected on her mother's words, it didn't sound like this one would be any different. Besides which,

"Sorry mom. I'm going out with some girls from the sorority on Thursday."

It hadn't been her idea. She'd had enough bad birthdays to want to avoid them all together but she'd let slip to one of her sorority sisters that hers was coming up and she'd insisted on organising an evening out. Which, it had to be said, her mother looked pretty disappointed about. Well momentarily anyway, until she came up with her next big idea.

"Well why don't you meet here? You could introduce me to your friends, and we could have some champagne before you go out."

Mindful of the fact that she was getting later and later by the second, Olivia was tempted to agree to the idea just to shut her mother up so she could get on her way. Tempted, but thinking better of it when she realised that would actually involve having the friends she rather liked, and her unpredictable mother in the same room.

Absolutely not.

She didn't want to be that blunt though, partly because she didn't have time for a row, and partly because it seemed rude to kick her mother when she seemed to be attempting to win a parent of the year award all of a sudden, no matter how irritating she was finding it. Instead she opted for noncommittal,

"Maybe. Although," she added, because although she was late, some thing's were just too important not to mention, "maybe no champagne. You're not meant to be drinking."

Her mother had the audacity to LAUGH, of all things, a tinkering, playful little laugh, followed up with an equally inappropriate comment about "one little drink not hurting" that just made Olivia want to shake her and remind her that she'd never had ONE little drink in her life. She resisted the temptation but her anger must have showed anyway because as she tried to leave a second time, her mother called her back.

"Olivia, have I done something to upset you? Because I'm just trying to arrange something lovely for your 20th birthday and you're acting like I just strangled the cat."

"We don't have a cat." she responded moodily, "And I have to go."

Apparently the response did nothing to pacify her mother who came to her side and grabbed her by the arm, "Olivia! What is all this about?"

Olivia didn't know if it was being physically restrained, or questioned, or just the fact that she was being made late, but whatever it was, it flicked a switch in her that completely pushed her over the edge. She swung round angrily to face her mother, her eyes blazing,

"YOU'RE asking ME what this is all about? I think I'm the one who should be asking you that. Since when do you care about my birthday? You never have before."

"That's not true. We always go out to dinner." Her mother looked like she'd been slapped but Olivia had been pushed too far to care.

"Yes. We do." she conceded, but angrily, remembering all the birthday dinners she'd endured over the years, "And as a kid I _really appreciated_ all the stuffy restaurants with food I didn't like and you working your way down the wine list on the other side of the table. Every birthday I had was just another excuse for you to get to drunk, not that you've ever really needed one." she could tell from the look on her mother's face that she'd gone too far but yet she couldn't stop as 19 resentment of 19 different but equally lousy birthdays came flooding out. "And remember in grade school? When I asked you to help me make muffins to take in for my class? What did you do? You sent me in with pastries from that exclusive bakery that my whole class hated, and actually," she bit her lip hard realising she was close to tears and not wanting her mother to see her cry, "I didn't care that no one liked them. That wasn't why I was upset. I was upset because I wanted us to make the muffins together. I wanted you to spend time with me. That's the best birthday gift you could ever have given me."

"Oliva…" her mother moved to hug her, but she ducked out the way as once again it all seemed like too little too late. "Olivia please." she felt slightly guilty as she realised she wasn't the only one near to tears but what came next was enough to push the guilt right away again "I'll make it up to you. We can spend this birthday together. We can go to a spa or something."

She swallowed hard, shaking her head, "I don't want to go to a spa on Thursday. I wanted to make muffins 13 years ago. Look mom." she glanced at her watch again - she was really running late now and more than that was just desperate to get out of there, "Just forget Thursday. What's a birthday anyway? Its just another 365 days around the sun. I don't care about it, so why should you?"

And with that, she was gone, slamming the door behind her.


	14. Shopping

**Prompt by XTSCX - thank you! And please keep the reviews coming!**

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**Shopping**

_The quickest way to know a woman is to go shopping with her. ~Marcelene Cox_

Mommy was home early enough to collect her from school. Olivia knew what that meant. It meant they'd be going to the store. It was always the same on nights where mommy collected her. Not that they happened very often.

It went like this. Mommy would arrive at school late. She always did, even though she knew what time school let out. That was always the first sign that Olivia was being picked up by her mommy and not a sitter. She knew it, and her teacher Mrs Adams knew it too. At the beginning of the school year Mrs Adams had tried to call her mommy, but now they both just sat and waited, and Mrs Adams would read her a story, because they knew she'd show up eventually.

Then she'd arrive and she'd say she was really sorry for being late, then she'd look at Mrs Adams and say something about her students keeping her after her lectures to ask questions. Olivia knew that lectures were lessons for big people, and that what her mommy was saying was an 'excuse'. The big people couldn't really need to ask that many questions, her mommy just didn't want to spend time with her. She never did. Olivia didn't think her mommy liked her very much. She'd said that to Mrs Adams once and Mrs Adams had said that it couldn't possibly be true but Olivia could see that the words coming from her mouth were not the same ones her eyes were saying and she thought Mrs Adams didn't think her mommy liked her much either.

After the apologising and the excuses they would say goodbye to Mrs Adams and go and get in the car. Then they'd drive to the store and get out of the car and go inside and mommy would always buy the exact same things.

"A bottle of Jack Daniels and a packet of luckies please?"

Olivia had tried to buy a bottle of Jack Daniels and a packet of luckies when she was playing in the pretend shop in her classroom but Alice Reynolds asked Mrs Adams what they were and then Mrs Adams had a little talk with Olivia and said it wasn't really appropriate for her to be buying alcohol and cigarettes because she was only five.

Anyway, this day was like all the other days, until they got into the store then Olivia slipped away while her mommy was waiting at the counter and ran quickly to where the soap and shampoos and things like that were kept. She walked along the shelves and eventually she found what she was looking for and stood on tiptoes to reach it.

She'd just got her hands on it when she heard her mommy's voice behind her sounding annoyed.

"Olivia! What are you doing?"

She grasped the bottle of liquid soap. It was pink and had pictures of bubbles with smiley faces on the front. Olivia didn't really like pink things very much but their apartment had a pink bathroom so she knew her mommy would like it. Everything had to match in their apartment.

"Can I buy this?" she asked her mommy hopefully before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a handful of coins, "I brought these from my piggy bank."

Mommy looked at her, a puzzled expression on her face, "Olivia, we have soap at home."

"But it's a bar." she explained, talking quickly, wanting to make her mommy understand, "Its hard to wash myself with a bar, and Mrs Adams said it would be easier with liquid soap."

Her mommy's eyes narrowed which Olivia knew meant she was cross. She was worried that she was cross with her but when she spoke again she discovered she was actually angry with someone else.

"And what business is it of Mrs Adams what kind of soap we have? What exactly does it have to do with her?"

Olivia bit her lip, wishing she hadn't said anything. She didn't want to get Mrs Adams into trouble, and now mommy would probably make a big fuss and Mrs Adams would be cross with Olivia and it would all be horrible!

"OLIVIA!" Mommy snapped, looking at her angrily, "What has Mrs Adams been saying to you?" Her voice was getting louder and louder and people were starting to look at them which Olivia didn't like so even though she didn't want to tell her mommy she knew she had to, just to make her be quiet.

"She was showing me how to wash myself. How to make myself properly clean." She said it really quietly, hoping no one else but her mommy would hear. She didn't want them to think she was dirty, it had been bad enough when Mrs Adams had talked to her about it, because even though she was really nice, Olivia had still felt embarrassed.

Her mommy snatched the bottle from her hands, "Fine." she said, walking towards the counter again, "But I think I need to have a word with Mrs Adams, don't you?"

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Serena was furious. She didn't know what her daughters interfering busybody of a teacher was playing at but whatever it was it was highly inappropriate. Teaching a 5 year old how to wash herself? Olivia was completely capable of washing herself and had been for some time. She was bright, independent, and more than capable of looking after herself. Serena had always admired that in her, and been grateful for it too. It made her life a lot easier.

She turned the car around, looking at her daughter sat beside her, clutching the bottle of soap and looking like she could quite easily burst into tears at any moment. Serena doubted she would though, it wasn't generally her style, something else she was grateful for. On the odd occasion Olivia did whine and cry it pissed her off chronically.

They arrived at the school soon afterwards and she marched down the corridor with her daughter in tow, planning what she was going to say to the old witch. When she reached the classroom she left Olivia outside, with strict instructions not to go anywhere and barged her way in.

The woman was sat at her desk, but looked up when she entered, smiling thinly. Serena had the distinct impression that her daughter's teacher had taken against her for some reason, although she had no idea why, and she suspected that this was all part of it, and if it was, it was going to stop immediately. She wasn't having her daughter dragged into whatever problem the teacher had with her.

"Olivia tells me you've been teaching her how to wash? Since when is that on the curriculum.

The teacher said nothing to begin with, then sighed, then glanced over at the door then finally deemed to come up with an answer, "Since, Ms Benson, one of my colleagues overheard a girl in the playground asking your daughter why she smells."

Serena felt another surge on anger rip through her, "If my daughter is being bullied, why is she the one being persecuted?"

The teacher laughed slightly, "Ms Benson no one's persecuting Olivia. I took her to one side, where no one could hear me and had a little chat about personal hygiene. Olivia seemed very grateful. She seems to enjoy spending time with adults on a one to one basis."

Serena wasn't sure what annoyed her the most. The insinuation that her daughter needed hygiene advice, or that she needed adult attention, which was no doubt a dig about her being a working single mother. The woman was a patronising bitch who probably didn't even have children of her own, so who was she to cast judgement on someone that did.

"My daughter," she snapped, "is a perfectly well adjusted child, who is always clean and neat and tidy." Even as she said it she did wonder slightly whether it was completely true. After all, she was usually at work by the time Olivia got up in the mornings and it was so hard to find a competent sitter. Perhaps they were sending her into school looking less than perfect and that was why she was copping all the attitude from the teacher now.

"Your daughter," the other woman said, confirming her suspicions, "turns up at school most days looking unkempt and unclean. And its not just the staff here who have noticed it. The children are starting to ask questions too. I was trying to protect Olivia, Ms Benson, not hurt her. I just suggested she give herself a really good scrub and made her a chart so she knows when to wash her hair."

Even though she was angry, Serena couldn't help feeling a little bit guilty at not trying harder to find a decent sitter. She'd thought the current one was alright but evidently not. Still, the guilt took a backseat to anger again when she heard the teacher's final insult.

"These are things a mother should be doing Ms Benson."

Serena exploded.

"This mother is doing all she can. I feed my daughter, I clothe my daughter, I keep a roof over her head, and see she's well educated, and you're taking the moral high ground with me because occasionally her hair isn't clean?"

The teacher sighed, "Ms Benson, I don't want to argue with you. I just feel that Olivia needs a little less material love and more hands on input from you. If you're struggling to cope there are people who can help."

Serena was instantly on her guard at those words. The last thing she needed was the teacher trying to get do-gooders involved. She and Olivia managed very well. They didn't need anyone else.

Well apart from a competent sitter.

"We're fine. Thank you very much." Somehow the words seemed weak on their own, and so she decided to add a little something else with which to back them up, "And in case you were thinking of telling anyone anything to the contrary, can I remind you that I sit on the School Board, and have made sizeable financial donations, so really, I don't think you want to rock the boat do you?"

"Are you threatening me?" The teacher asked shakily, so shakily in fact that Serena could tell she really had her rattled.

She smiled, "Not threatening you, no. Just pointing out that you should be careful who you criticise in future. Now, I intend to find a new sitter for Olivia, but if you have any further issues with my daughter, I'd be grateful if you'd discuss them with myself, rather than her."

She turned and made to leave, since as far as she was concerned the conversation was over, but as she reached the door the teacher spoke again.

"I tried to call you Ms Benson. I wanted to discuss it with you before I approached Olivia because I thought you might like to do it yourself. I left five messages on your answer phone, but didn't hear back from you. So now I'm just pointing out that you might like to return my calls in future. It might save us from having any more meetings like this one."

Serena laughed, unable to believe the cheek of the sanctimonious bitch, then she took Olivia by the hand and led her down the corridor,

"Come on Olivia. Lets go home…"


	15. Friend

**Now call me behind, but I've just seen the S6 episode Weak and been introduced to Dr Rebecca Hendrix. IMDB tells me she's recurring so this may end up being -non-canon but I really wanted to write something with her and since her and Olivia had obviously been close friends at one point (and I thought her final scene with Liv in the ep really indicated that - "you can't save everyone") I thought this would be as good as place as any. **

**Given all that, the prompt is mine, and Preston is also mine and making his second appearance in this fic following 'Rage'.**

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**Friend**

_The friend is the man who knows all about you, but still likes you - Elbert Hubbard_

She had Preston in cuffs when the phone rang; was sat astride him in negligee, planting kisses down his chest. It was his apartment, but he made no move to answer the call, although that was hardly surprising since it would have been nigh on impossible giving the way she had his wrists chained to be bedposts.

She reached for the phone's cordless handset, already knowing deep down who the caller was, or at least what the problem would be. She gave Preston an apologetic smile and then spoke,

"Hello."

"Olivia, it's Rebecca."

Hearing her roommate's voice on the other end of the line confirmed what she'd already known, particularly taking into account how pissed off Bex sounded. She got to her feet and with a second apologetic smile at her sometimes lover she made her way into the ensuite bathroom before continuing her call.

"Is it my mom? Is she ok?"

"Yes, no, in that order." Rebecca replied shortly, "She fell onto the floor of the hallway the minute I opened the door. Can you come home?"

"Yeah." It pained her to agree to it. Quite aside from the fact that she was more in the mood for hot and heavy sex than she was mopping up her drunken mother, the thought of facing Rebecca wasn't a pleasant one. They'd been roommates for just two months, and in that time there'd been too many occasions where her mother had shown her up in one way or another, be it turning up at their building blind drunk, or calling their house phone at 3am. Her roommate was sick of it, and Olivia didn't blame her. She was pretty sick of it herself. All that said, what could she do? She had to go back and deal with it, Rebecca would only be more pissed at her if she didn't. "I'll be there soon." she said reluctantly.

"Thank you." Rebecca replied, and Olivia could hear her tone soften as she did so, for all the good it did. She appreciated being given an undeserved break but it didn't make her feel any the less ashamed and embarrassed that her mother had been inflicted on her friend yet again.

She headed back into the bedroom where Preston was still sprawled on the bed, his hands restrained. She didn't need to say a single word to him, didn't need to explain, they'd been there too many times for him not to know the score. He rolled his eyes, "You at least going to unlock me before you go?"

She moved to his side and taking the handcuff key from the beside table, unlocked both sides of the cuffs and then began to get dressed. He watched her but again said nothing. Their relationship, their fuck fest, didn't allow for deep and meaningful conversation, and that was fine by Olivia, she preferred it that way. When she was dressed she looked over at him questioningly, "Pick up where we left off tomorrow?"

He shrugged, "If you're free babe, if you're free."

His choice of words was ironic, she thought as she walked away from him, out of his apartment and into the city streets. She was starting to feel like she'd never be free. After her mother's overdose she'd made every effort to be around, cutting short nights with Preston, working days wherever she could so she could be home when her mom was, and eventually her mom had seemed to get herself on the straight and narrow once more. Deep down Olivia had always known it wouldn't last - past experience had told her that - but she'd wanted to believe so badly that it could and that was why she'd agreed to move in with Rebecca.

Big mistake.

Her mom hated the fact she was gone, and was determined to make her life hell like as a result. Things had got progressively worse from the moment she'd moved out, and hearing Rebecca's snippy tone on the phone made her realise that there was no way it was ever going to work. Her poor roommate was at the end of her tether and there was no way she was going to carry on putting up with her mother's antics.

When she reached their building she climbed the stairs, wishing she was anywhere else but and let herself into the apartment that was supposed to be her first real crack of freedom. Ha.

She found Rebecca scrubbing the carpet in the living room, her mother passed out unceremoniously on the couch. It didn't take Einstein to put the pieces together…

"She was sick on the floor."

Rebecca glared at her, "She crawled in from the hall, spewed on the carpet, and when I tried to haul her sorry ass onto the couch she accused me of being a, quote, 'dirty lesbian'. She thinks we're sleeping together."

It might have sounded outlandish to anyone else, but Olivia knew what her mother was like when she'd had a drink. Nothing she had to say under the influence surprised her anymore. She looked at Rebecca apologetically, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't good enough Olivia. I can't take any more of this." Rebecca got to her feet, tossing the cloth she was using into a bucket of soapy water on the coffee table and which she then picked up and carried into the kitchen, "You're a great roomie Liv. I love hanging out with you, and talking shop but this is too much. I can't deal with your mother and her impromptu visits."

Olivia followed her, her heart in her boots as she heard what she had to say. She knew she was basically being asked to leave and it killed her. She loved living with Rebecca; they'd been friends at the academy and had such a great time living together; lots of watching action movies and eating cheese and biscuits long into the night, plus her friend was infinitely more patient about her loud sex with Preston than her mother had ever been. But more than anything, it was the thought of going home that killed her, she just couldn't face it.

"I'm sorry." she said, instantly cursing herself for how weak her apology sounded, "Bex, please, don't throw me out. I need to be here. I can't go home to her."

The other girl tipped the bucket into the sink, apparently ignoring her, but when she turned to face her she was smiling, albeit it sadly.

"Things I thought I'd never see, number 1." she moved to Olivia's side, "Olivia Benson crying."

Olivia went to dispute the fact but closed her mouth again when she realised that her eyes were blurred with tears. She brought her hands up and wiped the tears away only to be greeted by the sight of Rebecca looking at her, real concern written all over her face.

"I'm not throwing you out." she said gently, "But if I'm gonna be stuck cleaning up Mama Benson's vomit, I wanna at least know the reason why." She picked up a bottle of wine from the kitchen counter, "You, me, fire escape, now."

Olivia didn't really feel like following but neither did she feel she had a choice, which was how she found herself sat on the balcony of their fire escape, taking it in turns to swig from the bottle, as in between time Rebecca look long drags on one of the menthol cigarettes she smoked. After a lengthy silence, just as Olivia was thinking she might get away with saying nothing at all, Rebecca finally piped up with a question.

"How long has Mama Benson been drinking?"

It was funny, but it wasn't a question anyone had ever asked Olivia before, and to her surprise it was a relief to answer it.

"All my life."

"You know why?" There was a pause as Olivia tried to work out how to answer the question, but in the end she didn't have to immediately as Rebecca answered it herself, albeit just with a change of tone, "You know why." she said again, losing the question mark, "You must know why because I don't know why you'd put up with her otherwise."

It was an accurate summation, too accurate really, so accurate it hurt. Rebecca might have been a cop, but she'd have made a pretty good shrink as well Olivia figured, at least on that night's evidence. Not that it made it any easier for her to answer.

"Its complicated." she said eventually, "She's got a lot of problems."

Rebecca lit another cigarette, "No shit Sherlock. Come on, tell me. Is it to do with your father? I mean he's absent right?"

Another piece of guess work that was right on the money, although what followed was further from the mark.

"So he left her, big deal. Why should you suffer? She needs to pull herself together."

"He didn't leave her. He raped her." The words were out of Olivia's mouth before she could stop them, and to her surprise, like admitting how long her mother had been drinking, it felt good to finally say them. So good in fact that she said it again, "He raped her. And made me."

Rebecca fell uncharacteristically silent, with nothing more than a stunned, "Oh." to indicate to Olivia that she'd heard a single word she'd said, and with Olivia feeling like she had nothing left to say they were left in silent limbo, or at least they were until Rebecca regained her composure and then she reached out and put her arm around Olivia's shoulder.

"That's shit."

Olivia shrugged, "Shit happens." She took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together, a little overwhelmed at having admitted for the first time who she was and where she'd come from. She almost felt bad about it, after all, Rebecca was having a hard enough time dealing with her crazy mother without Olivia confusing things even further. She turned to her friend, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for this, and I'm sorry for my mom."

The other girl shook her head, "Don't be. Liv, if I'd known…" she sighed, "I'll mop up all the sick you need. I had no idea. Do you want to talk about it?"

She didn't. She'd lived with 'it' for years, and talking about it wouldn't change a single thing. But talking about the wider situation, that was something else entirely.

"Its just hard sometimes." she said, picking the wine bottle up and swigging from it once again, "I want to forget where I came from, but I can't because my mom's like she is. I want to be a normal twentysomething and go out and have sex and do all those nice fun things and I can't because I have my alcoholic mother following me at every turn, and I can't reject her because its my fault she's like she is, I have to take care of her."

"No." Rebecca shook her head, letting her arm drop from around Olivia, "No you don't, especially not tonight." she reached for Olivia's hand, lifted it to her lips and kissed it, "Go on, go back to O'Grady, be his little," she drew imaginary quotation marks in the air, "fuck princess."

Olivia blushed, embarrassed at Rebecca's use of Preston's term of endearment of choice for her, and shaking her head as she did so, "No. Its ok." She wasn't playing the martyr, there was just no way she'd ever consider knowingly leaving her mess of a mother for her roommate to deal with.

That said, said roommate was having none of it, "Olivia, she's sleeping. I'll look out for her tonight."

Again, Olivia shook her head, "I can't leave you with this. You already cleaned up the carpet after her."

Rebecca laughed softly, "Like you've never done that before. Liv," she said gently, "I've watched you trying to save your mom, and I didn't get it, but now I do. And now I do, there's no way I'm going to leave you doing it alone. You've had years of this, I can hold the fort for one night. Go on," she let go of Olivia's hand, "go be a normal girl."

It still felt wrong, but it was also utterly tempting, especially when she thought of Preston, his strong arms and his equally strong thighs. Olivia looked at Rebecca, a hopeful but questioning look on her face, "Are you sure?"

Rebecca smiled, "Of course I'm sure Olivia. That's what friends are for."


	16. Vacation

**Prompt by - Brit10Brat**

**I've borrowed from, and therefore there are spoilers for Intoxicated (the episode), although its not completely canon.**

**References to 'History' (the moment)**

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**Vacation**

"_A vacation is like love - anticipated with pleasure, experienced with discomfort, and remembered with nostalgia." ~ Author Unknown_

Anticipated

Olivia looked into her wardrobe critically. Very critically. There was nothing in there worth wearing. It was so last year.

She glanced from her wardrobe, to her suitcase, laying open on the bed, completely empty. It was impossible. They were leaving in two days and there was no way she'd ever be packed in time.

She sighed, turning on heel and leaving the room, leaving both suitcase and wardrobe behind.

Her mother was in her own room, selecting clothes from her own wardrobe to pack. Olivia just stood watching her for a few moments, taking in how together she appeared to be. Steady on her feet, stable, not a tremor in sight. It wasn't exactly what she was used to. Not that she was about to get used to it or take it for granted. She'd been there too many times and been disappointed too many times in the past. She'd learnt the hard way that she just had to appreciate her mother's good days in the there and now.

Still, she was trying real hard but then that was hardly surprising given the threat Olivia herself was holding over her head. She'd been on and off of the wagon too many times in the last six months or so, with serious consequences on more than one occasion. Olivia's deal was simple. Sort it out, or lose her forever. She didn't want it to come to that, but if it had to, she had the tools at her disposal to do it and her mother knew it.

Hence the fact she was trying so hard.

"Olivia." Her mom suddenly became aware of her presence and smiled over at her, "How's the packing going?"

Olivia shrugged, "I don't have anything to take."

"You have lots of beautiful clothes." Her mother replied, but then a look of doubt clouded her face, "Don't you?" she asked, obviously wondering if her motherly neglect had spread as far as Olivia's wardrobe.

A different person, a more malicious one, might have claimed not and manipulated her mother's guilt, but Olivia had more about her than that. For all she was angry with her mom she also genuinely wanted her to get better and wasn't about to do anything to upset her.

"I have beautiful clothes for America mom, but we're going to Milan." she looked at her hopefully, "Can I get some new things? I can go to shops myself."

Her mom looked at her and then shook her head, crushing all her hopes until she spoke again, "No, I tell you what, I'll come with you. We can go shopping together. We'll have you dressed for Italy in no time."

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She wasn't trying to buy Olivia's love. Nor her forgiveness. But she knew she owed her daughter, and the shopping trip, like the vacation itself were just small steps in her grand plan to make amends.

She knew that all the new outfits in the world wouldn't change the fact her loser boyfriend had molested her daughter. The finest hotel rooms, Italian cuisine and sightseeing trips could never take back the night she'd attacked her with a broken bottle. But if she combined those things with being a proper mom and staying sober maybe it would be enough to save their relationship.

She hoped it would.

It wasn't easy, but what choice did she have? Especially since Olivia had taken it upon herself to involve some interfering law student who had filled her head with ludicrous ideas involving legal emancipation and the like. If she didn't watch her step, she could end up losing her daughter and she didn't want that.

She may not have liked where her daughter came from, but she still loved her.

After their shopping trip, they stopped at a chain pizza restaurant for dinner. It wasn't their usual kind of eating establishment but it seemed fitting given their destination and Olivia was keen to eat there. For Serena it all seemed a bit cheap, the service slow and the pizza not up to much, but Olivia was smiling and that was what mattered.

That was ALL that mattered now.

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Everything felt perfect. Too perfect. She had suitcase crammed with fabulous new clothes, and she was headed off to Italy for a fortnight with her mom. Her sober mom. Her sober mom who wanted to spend time with her.

Too perfect. Too perfect and too likely to go wrong.

As she sat in the cab on the way to JFK, her mom at her side, she desperately tried to push the thought to the back of her mind, so it was still there but not in the way spoiling the day.

The here. The now. That was what she had to concentrate on.

She was going to Italy. She was going to eat pizza and buy even more clothes and eye up gorgeous Italian men and…

Spend time with her mom.

She'd got what she'd always wanted. The point now was to enjoy it.

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Experience

She held back until the waiter had walked away, and then glared at her mother.

"Please don't."

They were in the restaurant at the hotel, it was only the second night of their holiday, and already… this…

Her mother knew full well what 'this' was. Olivia could tell from the way she closed her eyes and sighed heavily, obviously hoping that when she opened her eyes that her errant and irritating daughter would have disappeared.

Which she would, in the end, if her mother went through with this.

"Please." she said again, labouring her point, hoping above all hope that her mother would change her mind.

No.

"Darling, its one glass, with a meal. What else am I meant to drink?"

Olivia picked up the drinks list from the table, reading from it, "Coke? Orange juice? Mineral water?" her voice was getting louder and louder with each option but she didn't care anymore, she was hurting too much to care.

Her mother snatched the menu from her, "Olivia! People are looking!"

She pushed her chair back from the table getting to her feet, "Let them look. It's you they'll be looking at. I'm out of here."

Watching Olivia walk away, Serena felt a stab of guilt. She knew one glass of wine was unacceptable. She'd long since moved beyond the point where she could be an occasional drinker and have one glass. She was on the 12 steps and that called for complete abstinence.

But yet she'd seen the wine list and fancied a drink and made some crazy excuse to herself about wine and food and being on vacation and in doing so she'd once again ended up at odds with her sixteen year old daughter.

She was an idiot. An absolute idiot.

Sometimes she thought Olivia might be better off without her. Maybe becoming legally emancipated from her might be the best thing all round. And yet, even thinking it hurt her more than she'd ever been hurt in her life. She couldn't lose her little girl. She just couldn't.

She got to her feet, and without a word to the waiter walked out of the restaurant, looking around for Olivia, and not seeing her deciding to head back to their suite in the hope that she'd gone there.

Thankfully she had, although when Serena first saw her, hunched on her bed, sobbing uncontrollably she almost wished she had gone somewhere else, if only to spare her having to see just how much damage one glass of wine, that she'd never had the opportunity to drink, had done.

"Baby." she sat down on the bed beside her, reaching out to gently touch her back, "I'm sorry. I just felt like a glass of wine with my dinner, I'm sorry, I should have thought, I'm so sorry." Her words came out in a nervous rush but that was nothing compared to Olivia's response.

"You're sorry?" Serena found herself pushed from the bed as Olivia bolted before turning on her angrily. "I've said I'll leave mom. I've said I'll leave and NEVER come back if you don't stop! And yet you still can't do it! So what does that say about how you feel about me? You couldn't care a less whether I'm in your life or not. The bottle is all that matters to you!"

The words were like a knife to her heart and she told Olivia so, but her daughter had a pretty cutting comeback for her.

"Yeah. And you ordering a drink was like a knife to mine."

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She had said that it was never going to happen again. She was never going to let her mother get her into THAT state, where the tears were flowing and her heart was breaking, and yet there they were, in a hotel room in Milan, with her inconsolable and her mother failing to find anything helpful to say.

"You know the worst thing." she said, through her tears, "Is you can't even be honest about it. I could almost excuse it if you could be honest, but you lie… you lie all the time."

Her mother looked at her questioningly, missing the point, "But I didn't lie, I ordered the drink in front of you."

She shook her head, "You lie about why you do it. You didn't just fancy a drink with your meal mom. You've been wanting a drink all day. I've seen the signs." And she had. The sideways glances towards the pool bar, the longing stares at the wine list at lunch. Her apparent interest in the mini bar as they were dressing for dinner. "You've been desperate to drink since the moment you saw that man smiling at me by the pool at 10am."

She sat down on the bed then, waiting for her mother to deny it but to her surprise, she didn't, instead slowly nodding.

"I find it very hard when men take an interest in you. I don't like it."

It wasn't exactly news to her, it was a man taking an interest in her that had caused the drinking spree that had resulted in her mother coming after her with a broken bottle, but it was news to hear her mother admitting it. "Because you think they're going to rape me?" she said hesitantly.

Again her mom nodded, "Yes."

She understood, of course she did, she knew her mom's history, she knew what she'd been through. But she couldn't keep letting her hurt her because of it.

"He's not going to rape me if I'm sat with my mom is he?" Olivia pointed out, "But he might if I'm sat on my own because my mom is upstairs sleeping off a hangover."

Her mom smiled slightly, "Touche." She reached out, touched Olivia's arm, "I'm sorry. I should never have ordered the drink. You do matter to me more than the bottle does."

Olivia wanted to believe her, but it was impossible on the evidence she'd seen up to that point. "Prove it." she said coolly, "Last chance mom. I mean it."

Her mother reached out and hugged her gently, "I know you do. And Olivia, I didn't drink the wine. I came straight after you."

Somehow, in spite of everything, that really meant something to Olivia. It wasn't the same as not ordering the wine at all, granted. But it was a step in the right direction.

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Remembered

"Wow! Hot bikini bodies!"

"Elliot!" Olivia stopped what she was doing - opening a bottle of wine as it happened - and moved to Elliot's side to chide him, "That's my mother. A bit of respect please."

Elliot grinned slightly, "Fine. Hot bikini body. Singular. Yours. Ok?" He took the picture down from the fridge door where it was stuck and looked at it closely, "Seriously, it's a nice picture of you two. Where was it taken?"

"Italy." she replied, returning to opening the wine, "I was 16 going on 17."

Elliot hummed a couple of bars from the obvious number from the Sound of Music and then added, "Knowing you Liv, you were 16 going on 32." he paused, looking at her curiously, "One of your moms better times?"

Olivia shrugged, not really wanting to get into the story after a long day at work, especially since they'd been planning on just crashing out and watching a movie. "She was trying, put it that way."

"Did you have a nice holiday?"

"Yeah." She replied, "It was ok." Because actually, the first row aside, it had been. They'd spent time together, and they'd talked. She'd even managed to convince her mom to confide in her when she wanted to drink and why, which had helped them both in different ways. As vacations went, it had been a good one.

Her mom had even stayed dry. Not a single drink in the whole fortnight.

It was just a shame it hadn't lasted. Not that she wanted to get into that either. She was too tired, and just wanted to relax. She grabbed the bottle and two glasses from the counter, "Come on El, lets go watch the film."

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	17. Pregnancy

**Authors Notes – I've been meaning to write this for ages! I suppose technically the actual prompt for this was the Olivia quote "I had a pregnancy scare in college and that was bad enough" from the actual show but the Phyllis Diller quote seemed pretty apt too!**

**Like the last chapter, there are spoilers for Intoxicated.**

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**Pregnancy**

_By far the most common craving of pregnant women is not to be pregnant. ~Phyllis Diller_

Any other night, her mother would have been out, or drunk, or locked away in her office getting so. Any other night that would have pissed Olivia off but on this particular occasion she'd have welcomed it. Unfortunately for her, she just wasn't that lucky, and her contrary mother was sat on the couch marking what looked like a pile of essays, looking pretty much sober for once in her life.

Damn it.

She thought about hightailing it straight to her room, but she knew deep down that it just wasn't going to happen, and sure enough seconds later her mother looked up, smiling warmly at her,

"You're late darling. Did class overrun?"

Olivia shook her head, "No. I did some shopping on the way home."

"Did you get anything nice?"

She groaned inwardly. It was nice when her mother was lucid enough to want to and be able to hold a normal mother / daughter conversation but she was really was choosing her moment on this occasion. She shifted awkwardly, glancing into her bag, trying to think which purchases she could actually tell her about, "I got a card for Keeley, it's her birthday tomorrow. And I got the latest edition of Vogue." She added, hoping that would be enough to satisfy her mother and let her make her escape.

Apparently not. "Keeley's one of your sorority sisters isn't she; the girl whose father works on Wall Street?"

The inward groan became more of a silent scream. Her mother couldn't remember who she was half the time, so where her sudden encyclopaedic knowledge of her friends came from Olivia had no idea. It wasn't like she'd even met them; there was no way Olivia had been going to suffer that indignity. Still she didn't want to give her mother the impression that there was something wrong so she just smiled,

"Yeah. That's her."

"Can I get a look at your magazine?" her mother asked, "I'm almost done with these papers."

She'd been planning on reading the magazine herself but decided she was willing to do anything to get her mother off her back. She reached into the bag and pulled the magazine out; and that was when it happened…

The small rectangular box that she'd purchased at the drugstore just ten minutes before came flying out of the bag with the magazine and landed at her mothers feet.

There was an awkward silence as her mother lent over and picked it up, before looking up at Olivia with a look of horror on her face.

"What the hell is this?"

Olivia took a deep breath, cursing her own klutziness. She didn't need this. She really didn't. Things were bad enough without her mother getting involved. "You know what it is mom." She said quietly, "Can I have it back please?"

She knew she was expecting too much of her mother, knowing that there was no way she was just going to give her the box back and leave her to it. And she was right.

"You're pregnant? Olivia what did I tell you? You're a bright girl, why would you act so irresponsibly?"

"I don't know if I'm pregnant." She snapped, snatching the pregnancy test back from her, "That's the whole point of this. And I didn't mean it to happen mom. I didn't do it on purpose."

"Then how did it happen?" her mother asked crisply, leaving her in no doubt that she had little choice but to answer and explain.

She sat down on the sofa, turning the box over and over in her hands, "He used a condom, but it split."

"And you didn't think to acquire the morning after pill?"

She had thought. She had wanted to. She'd even made the doctors appointment but when it came down to it, she couldn't go through with it. She'd been too embarrassed, and god she was regretting that now. "Please mom." She said softly, "Leave it?"

"Leave it?" her mother snapped, "Olivia Benson I'm just getting started! How the hell did this happen? I didn't even know you had a boyfriend." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, "You've not been seeing him again have you?"

There were no prizes for guessing who she was referring to; she got the same snippy tone to her voice whenever the subject of Olivia's ex fiancé came up. Not that she needed to worry, the fuss she'd made two years previously had scared Stephen off for good. There was no way he was ever coming back again. Olivia shook her head, "It wasn't him."

"Then who was it?" Serena asked, "What's this boyfriend's name?"

Olivia stared down at the box in her hands again, anything to avoid looking at her mother as she dropped her bombshell. "There isn't a boyfriend. I had a one night stand." She waited for the explosion but it didn't come, and when she finally lifted her eyes to see how her mother was reacting she wondered why she hadn't expected it in the first place.

She'd got to her feet and had moved over to the drinks trolley where she was pouring herself a large measure of whiskey. So that was nothing new. Olivia got to her feet and headed for the door. If all her mom cared about was where the next drink was coming from then she'd deal with this like she dealt with everything else.

On her own.

"Where are you going?" her mother asked, just as she reached the door.

Olivia looked at her disparagingly, "Where do you think I'm going? I'm going to piss on a stick on a stick and find out if I've ruined my life."

"We're in the middle of a conversation."

She shook her head, "No mom, we were. Now you're in the middle of a drink, which will become another drink, and then another, and then the conversation will becoming a screaming row and I can't cope with that right now. I just need to find out if I'm pregnant and then I'll work out where I go from here."

It was then that the miracle occurred. The miracle Olivia had waited her whole life for. Her mother put the drink down and moved across the room to her side, "I'll go and make us some hot chocolate. With marshmallows." She paused, "Do we have marshmallows?"

Olivia nodded, suddenly close to tears, and not wanting her mom to know how overwhelmed she was. It felt so strange for her to be putting Olivia first, and actually wanting to help her, especially considering how angry she'd been to begin with. Any other time Olivia might have felt that it was too little too late, but the truth was she was terrified; terrified enough to really need her mother's support and to take it if it was on offer.

"Go and do the test darling." Her mom said giving her a hug before disappearing to the kitchen, presumably to make the hot chocolate that she apparently felt was synonymous with her mom of the year act.

She took the box into her bedroom and into the ensuite bathroom and sat down on the side of the bath, staring down at it. She'd been scared when she'd realised the condom had split, she'd been even more scared when her period hadn't come but nothing compared to how she felt at that moment. If she did the test and found out she was pregnant she had no idea what she'd do. She'd have to move out of their home, probably drop out of college too, and her dreams of joining the NYPD would go out of the window, but compared to the alternative…

She undid the box and took out the white stick and the instruction booklet. She knew she had to bite the bullet and do it, but she couldn't bring herself to even begin. It just felt like the beginning of the end.

She was still staring down at it when her mom appeared with a mug in each hand. "Did you do it?" she asked, sounding as nervous as Olivia herself felt. She shook her head,

"I can't mom."

"You have to."

She knew her mom was right, and so slowly nodded, "Can I have some privacy?"

"Of course." Her mother disappeared back into the bedroom leaving her alone with the test. She did the necessary and then went to join her, finding her sat on Olivia's bed. She sat down beside her with the test on her lap. Her mom looked at her, "How long does it take?"

"3 minutes." She replied shakily. They fell into an awkward silence which Olivia just had to break. Three minutes of silence with everything hanging over her just seemed unbearable. "Why did you put the drink down? Why aren't you yelling at me anymore?"

Her mom sighed, "Because I've been in your shoes sweetheart. I know how scared you are. I've never been much of a mom to you, but I couldn't let you do this on your own. Here…" she handed Olivia her hot chocolate, "drink this."

She took the mug and drank from it, mulling over her mothers words. On one hand it felt good that she was being supportive; it was great that she could empathise but their situations weren't the same. Not in the slightest. "You haven't really been in my shoes have you?" She said hesitantly, "Your pregnancy wasn't your fault."

Her mother shrugged, "It depends how you look at it. I was the one who took the short cut. I was the one who was dressed so very provocatively. There were people at the time who said I only had myself to blame."

Olivia shook her head incredulously, "Mom, you were raped. You can't blame yourself for that." It felt odd to be discussing the rape, her conception. They'd argued about it in the past, but they'd never ever talked about it in quite this way. So calmly. So soberly in her mother's case.

"I do blame myself." Her mother said, "But sweetheart, this isn't meant to be about me. We're talking about you. What will you do, if you are pregnant?"

Her question, like so many things her mother had said and done that evening, surprised Olivia. She hadn't suspected her mother would give her an option. She still remembered the day of her first period, and the condoms and the stark warning she'd received that her mother wouldn't tolerate an illegitimate baby in her house. She glanced at over at her, "You'd give me a choice? You wouldn't make me terminate the pregnancy?"

Her mom shook her head, "Not if it wasn't what you wanted. My parents tried to do that to me, and I hated them for it."

"But what if they were right?" The words were past Olivia's lips before she'd even thought them, and she instantly felt awkward at having asked the question and having put her mom so brutally on the spot. "You know what I mean." She said softly, "Its not always easy is it?" God, that was an absolute understatement, but she didn't want to hurt her mom by labouring the point any further. Beside which, her mother did know what she meant.

"It's not always easy." She said gently, conceding Olivia's point, "And I know that it's even harder on you. But I wouldn't be without you Olivia. Your grandparents were wrong. But this is your decision and you're only 18 years old, so if you decide to terminate the pregnancy that's fine with me. However," she added, "if you decide to keep the baby, I will try and support you. Even though," she looked away and Olivia knew it was so that she wouldn't be able to see the tears in her eyes, "I probably won't be very good at it. I'm not much of a mother; I probably won't be much of a grandmother either."

Olivia wanted to say something to reassure her, but was at a loss for the right thing to say. She couldn't lie to her, couldn't pretend that she was an amazing mom, or even a good mom, but neither did she want to hurt her by not disputing it. In the end, she just looked for the positives that she could draw attention to. "Thanks for this." She said, indicating the hot chocolate, "And for sitting with me, and talking to me; and for not going apoplectic over the one night stand."

Her mother smiled, "We all make mistakes Olivia. And I can see how mortified you are. But please, don't do it again."

There was absolutely NO chance of that. Not in a million years. She hadn't even enjoyed it that much. It hadn't felt particularly good, more awkward and embarrassing, and it didn't give her the sense of comfort that she'd so desperately needed. In fact, when it was over, she'd felt more alone than ever, but with an added sense of feeling dirty and cheap on top.

"Olivia," her mother broke into her thoughts, "It's probably been three minutes."

She glanced down, feeling like she might actually vomit, and then started to cry as she saw the result.

Not pregnant.

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**Authors Note Part 2 – I just wanted to say a huge thank you to Serena for being slightly more pleasant for once. It made a nice change to be writing her sober and not as a Grade A bitch! Oh and also a reminder that I LOVE reviews! :D **


	18. Snow

I've been suffering from writers block of late, but hopefully now I'm back for good! Hope you like this one. It's very much inspired by recent events! :D

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**Snow**

"_The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them: there ought to be as many for love." ~ Margaret Atwood_

He was worried about her.

Not that, that was anything new. In the course of their partnership he'd often had cause to worry, been given cause to worry; about her, by her. But this, this was something else. Since her mother died, his antennae of concern had gone crazy.

She was just so… stoic. That was the word. Stoic. Brave. But yet she wasn't quite pulling it off. He didn't believe in the crazy little front she was putting up. She said she was fine, but she wasn't, not by a long shot.

He could see it right now, as she sat opposite him, her head buried in work that he doubted she was paying even an ounce of attention to. She wasn't there, wasn't functioning. Her eyes were too glazed, an indicator that she may have been there in body but certainly wasn't in spirit.

"The snow's looking bad." He remarked, just wanting her to respond. Wanting her to say something, anything. Needing a conversation with her that was about anything but work. But although she looked up, looked out of the window, she didn't speak. Instead the response to his comment came from the next desk along, from Munch.

"Its bad alright. Last time I saw snow like that was 1978. Started snowing in November and didn't stop til February."

Elliot smirked, amused, as ever, by Munch's deadpan delivery. But he was quickly distracted from his mirth by movement from the desk opposite his as his partner got to her feet and moved to the window, staring out of it and down onto the snowy street below. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room altered dramatically, and although he had no real idea why, he knew he needed to be beside her.

He got to his feet too, and crossed the room to her side. "Liv?" He touched her back gently, "Are you ok?"

There was a beat. And then…

"I was 8."

He didn't need to do the math. It was fairly obvious.

She was talking about 1978.

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She was making porridge. She didn't much like porridge but she knew it was a good breakfast for cold days. And today was a real cold day. That was partly cos it was snowing but the fact that they had no heating didn't help. Olivia didn't know why they had no heating, except for the fact that when it had gone off the two days previously her mom had sworn a lot and gone through the big pile of letters that sat unopened in the letter rack. Still, it didn't matter, she just put 3 jumpers on over her pyjamas and then she'd been warm enough.

While the porridge was cooking she went into the den to look out of the window. The snow seemed even worse than ever and she wondered if school might be cancelled like the other kids in the class had been hoping yesterday. Olivia didn't understand why they were so keen to stay home. She liked school. She got to learn neat stuff and her teacher was real nice.

Still, the snow was big so she went into the kitchen and put the radio on like her teacher said and tuned it from her mom's classical radio station to the local one. There was just music to begin with and then the DJ started listing schools in the district that were closed with Olivia's being right at the top of the list

She felt her heart sink. She didn't want to stay home on her own.

Then he said another name. Her mom's university. All lectures cancelled.

Suddenly she felt a bit better. She turned the porridge down and went to her mom's room and knocked on the door.

"Yeah?"

She opened the door and found her mom sat at her dressing table putting her make up on. She looked ok, probably cos of the make up but Olivia knew it was a hangover day. Cos of the cocktail dress on the bedroom floor and the redness in her mom's eyes and the way her hand shook as she tried to do her mascara.

"I have a snow day." she told her mom, "You too."

She saw her mom grimace. That figured. Her mom didn't like spending any more time with her than she had to. And she let it show. And yet Olivia couldn't help asking… even though she knew it was stupid and pointless…

"Can we go to the park? Make a snowman together?"

"No." Her mom shook her head, as she reached to take off her earrings, and not surprising Olivia in the slightest, "Mom's sick. She's going back to bed. You need to look after yourself.

Another 8 year old might have cried like a baby. Or had a tantrum. Or sulked.

Not Olivia. She hadn't expected anything less.

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She did feel guilty but not because of refusal so much - after all she was sick, that was true enough. But because of the sad downtrodden way in which her daughter accepted said refusal. The sad smile. The "ok mom". Like she'd known it was coming all along.

It was pathetic. Sad. And all her doing.

The thing that got to Serena the most was that her daughter reminded her of a battered wife. No matter what she said or did to her she always came back for more.

All the same, in spite of the guilt, there was no way she was going to build a snowman. She had the hangover from hell. If she didn't have to go into work, she was headed back to bed.

She reached for a facial wipe, intent on taking off her make up off so she could collapse again and as she did so the snowy day out of the window caught her eye. She got to her feet and moved to it, looking out at the picture perfect snow scene in front of her.

And suddenly she was back in the past.

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"Dad! Mom! Dad! Mom!" She dashed into her parents bedroom and threw herself onto the bed, landing between the two of them and waking them instantly.

"Serena?" her mother looked at her through sleepy eyes, "What are you doing here? Its still dark outside."

"IT'S SNOWY OUTSIDE!"

"That's nice dear." Her mother remarked before closing her eyes again, much to Serena's utter disgust. She reached out and shook her awake again, "Mom! Its huge snow! We won't be going to school today, I know it! Plllllllllleeeeeeeeeeease can we go and build a snowman?"

Her mother looked at the clock on her bedside table, "Serena's it's 5.45am. Go back to bed. If your assumption about school is correct you've got all day to make a snowman."

Serena felt like she was about to burst. She'd been watching the snow for hours through the window and she was desperate to get outside and make a snowman. She couldn't bear the thought of waiting a moment longer. It just wasn't fair to make her wait. She was just about to start another round of protests when at her side her father opened his eyes and smiled at her.

"I think 5.45am is a perfect time to make a snowman. Go and put some warm clothes on." he paused, looking her up and down and taking in the snow clothes, mittens and scarf she was already wearing and then corrected himself, "Well, ok then, give me 5 minutes to put some warm clothes on then we'll go out into the garden and make the biggest snowman this town has ever seen. Does that sound good to you princess?"

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Serena wiped a tear from her eye, and then, hangover aside stripped out of her work clothes, pulling on sweat pants and several layers of sweaters. Her head was banging, and she felt like bursting into tears, suddenly mourning the loss of her relationship with her father. Ok, so he'd failed her, failed her big time since the rape. He'd not support her right to bring Olivia into the world. But when she was a kid he'd been the best dad in the world. The best parent in the world.

The kind of parent she should be.

She took her ski jacket from the wardrobe and headed into the kitchen where her daughter was sat at the breakfast bar eating a bowl of lumpy looking porridge. She grabbed two Tylenol from the cupboard and washed them down with a mug of coffee before turning to Olivia who hadn't so much as looked at her since she'd entered the kitchen.

"Do we have any carrots?"

Olivia shook her head, "Today's grocery shopping day. Do you think Rosa will be able to get in?"

Serena shrugged, "I don't know. Shame about the carrots though."

Her daughter looked at her curiously, "What do we need carrots for?"

She smiled, ignoring the pains that stabbed away inside her head as she did so, "Well, I was thinking we might make a snow person. In fact, I thought we might make Eleanor Roosevelt out of snow. But even Snowy First Ladies need a nose…"

The curious look turned into one of pure delight. A massive beam. A smile that was every bit the reward she needed for doing the right thing and not heading back to bed.

"We're going to make an snow Eleanor Roosevelt?"

"Yup." she took the porridge bowl from in front of her daughter, "We'll stop off for pancakes for breakfast, go to the store and get a carrot then build her in Central Park. Does that sound good to you?"

Olivia's smile widened, "That sounds perfect mom! It really does!"

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He watched as her shoulders started to shake and as he reached for her to turn her to face him he saw the tears that he'd waited so long to see. He pulled her to him, and she rested her head on his chest, crying onto his shirt as he stroked her hair and tried to comfort her.

Munch and Fin, watching the scene unfold and recognising its importance, left the room, giving them the space they needed, and when she eventually stopped crying and looked up at him through still teary eyes, he smiled at her reassuringly.

"Tell me what you need Liv. Tell me what you need me to do."

She smiled back weakly, and her arms, which had snuck around his waist as she'd cried suddenly tightened themselves around him. She looked up him, took a deep breath and then finally she spoke.

"Elliot? Can we go and build a snowman?"

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	19. Fight

**I'm having major writers block at the moment, but this came to me whilst listening to A Fine Frenzy's album so I ran with it. I'm hoping it might have done away with the writers block for good now because it seems to have given me some additional food for thought where this fic is concerned! Would love to get some feedback on this, particularly if there are 'moments' mentioned in it that you'd like to see developed into full chapters! Apologies (again) for the delay!**

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**Fight **

_Through walls and harvest moons, I will fight for you – Last of Days, A Fine Frenzy_

I should fight. I know that. I should fight if not for myself then for you. You've fought for me too many times for me to turn my back on you now; to give in so easily. But baby, I'm tired, I'm so incredibly tired. And I hurt. I just want to go to sleep.

I lay here, in the cold, alone and look up to the sky, feeling my eyes begin to close. I could just sleep. It would be better for you really. You pretend you love me, you pretend we have a relationship but we both know better. We both know I've hurt you too often, too many times.

My eyes close, but then I picture your face; angry and stubborn. It's not hard to imagine, they're expressions I've seen on it hundreds of time in the past. Every time I've messed up, every time I've been a lousy mom. It ought to have hurt but actually I always found it preferable to the alternative. When you looked disappointed and sad and like your heart was breaking.

Will your heart break now? If I die? Or are you past caring. Let's face it. This has always been on the cards. I would have died years ago if it wasn't for you; if you'd not been there to save me from myself; if you'd not been there to fight for me.

You did it before you were even born. My pregnancy, ironically, gave me something to focus on other than the violation that had put you there in the first place; kept me fighting. And that was the first time you saved me… but not the last.

I don't need to tell you about each occasion, I don't even really need to remind myself, although in many cases I probably don't remember them as well as you do. I just have glimpses, very slight recollections. All of which are coming back to me now, as I lay here in the gutter; in the cold.

You age four. Clutching a bottle of wine, sobbing.

"Please don't mama. Please don't."

But I did. And even worse I made you help me; talked you through uncorking the bottle because my hands were shaking too much to do it myself. You didn't want to it, you tried so hard to stop me, but in the end I forced you.

How much do I wish I'd listened to you now?

More memories; more fights; more moments in which I resented you and failed to realise that you weren't fighting against me, you were fighting for me.

You age nine. Forcing your little fingers down my throat to make me vomit after you found me slumped at the kitchen table surrounded by pill bottles. What kind of mother was I Olivia? What kind of mother subjects her child to a thing like that?

The same kind of mother who is willing to die in a drunken heap in an alleyway, leaving her daughter alone, just because it's the easy way out. A pathetic, self interested, waster of a mother.

I try and drag myself up, but before I can I'm hit by another memory.

Do you remember the morning I caught you trying to creep out to school with layer upon layer of make up caked on? You were thirteen if you were a day, and I dragged you back into the apartment, assaulting you with a stream of verbal insults, labelling you a slut. All because I was scared that someone would take one look at you and try and rape you.

And why were you wearing make up Olivia? Was it because you had a crush on your math teacher and wanted his attention?

No. It was to hide a large ugly bruise on your cheek. A bruise I'd put there the night before, lashing out at you drunkenly because you tried to take my bottle of scotch away from me.

That's the kind of mother I am. I didn't even remember doing it.

A car goes past in the road at the end of the alley, and the screech of its breaks takes me back to yet another night. When I tried to drive us somewhere, I know not where, drunk out of my mind. I'd only just got my licence back after the last time, so you'd think I'd know better, but when did I ever? I jumped a set of lights, narrowly missed a Mercedes and nearly killed us both. You had to drive home.

You weren't even old enough to have a learners permit.

All over again, I wonder why you still answer my calls. Why you still make an effort to see me. Why would you bother Olivia? Why would you care?

I don't understand it. I just know that you do.

Or did.

It might be different this time. After all, you're going to have to give up on me eventually. There are only so many times you can drag me to rehab kicking and screaming. There are only so many times you can put yourself through that pain.

Look at the last time; the stand off in your squad room, with your work colleagues watching by. I've never seen you so close to losing control baby. I actually thought you were going to break right there and then. I blamed him at the time. Your partner. Thought that whatever feelings you have for him were making you weak.

But actually, for you to show your emotions, that's a sign of strength. I see that now. It's something you never do; you're too ashamed to do, because I never let you. And suddenly you have the support, which gives you the courage to do just that. To break down.

I wonder if he'll be there for you, when I'm gone. I hope he will. You need someone, you always have.

Someone who is the complete opposite of me.

Someone who will fight for you, instead of you having to fight for them.

My eyes close again. I'm tired. I need to sleep.

Goodnight Olivia.

I'm sorry.


	20. Decision

**Decision**

_Living is a constant process of deciding what we are going to do. - Jose Ortega_

I once made the decision to kill my daughter. Not abort her you understand, but to actually kill her. Years later, in a counselling session in rehab, a do-gooder counsellor tried to convince me that I'd never really meant to harm her, or that if I had it was under extreme pressure with some sense of diminished responsibility but I don't buy it. I was there. He wasn't_._

She was 3 months old when it happened. Up to that point we'd still been in the honeymoon phase, or whatever you're meant to call the glowing and happy sense of wellbeing and love you have for a newborn, and to be honest, that might have carried on a little while longer were it not for the timing.

The timing, I would imagine, isn't hard for you to figure out. It just a case of doing the math. 3 month old baby, 9 months of pregnancy equals…

9 + 3 = 12.

Yeah, that's right. The one year anniversary of my rape. In hindsight maybe I should have seen it coming but like I said, I had my cute little bundle of joy. I thought things were good. Didn't see anything as simple as 'just another day' coming between us. Sure, I knew it was coming up but I didn't anticipate how bad it would be.

It wasn't helped by the fact that Olivia was sick. Colic. She kept me up all the night before, pacing the apartment as she shrieked and wailed. I didn't get a minutes sleep and so by the 'big day' itself I was already tired and running low on energy.

All the same, we coasted the daytime. Olivia settled, got some sleep and I relaxed, or at least tried to but… at the same time, I couldn't switch off from it. Every time I went into the kitchen and saw the date on the calendar it was just there, in my head, not letting go.

Then night came, and I started making times checks. A year ago today I was in class…. In the library… deciding to take the short cut home. That kind of thing.

Then two things happened. Olivia woke, colicky again, and I poured myself a drink. A near lethal combination as it happened. But I wasn't to know that at the time. And as I said, it was A drink, a quick and easy way to take the edge off of the day.

But, as is often the way with me, one glass led to two, and two to four, four to six. And with each glass I drank, I forgot a little bit more how much I loved my daughter and remember how much I'd been scarred by the act that made her.

And all the while she screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

I tried everything. Walking her up and down the room until I was too unstable to do so, leaving her screaming in her cot and hiding in my study with all the doors closed to block out of the noise, I even - once I was really drunk - called my parents and sobbed into their answer phone, begging them to come and take the little spawn of Satan away.

To this day I don't know if they were home, but if they were, the ignored my calls, just as I'd ignored theirs in recent months. They didn't want to know me, any more than I wanted to know them.

Eventually, I was as hysterical as she was. Drunk out of my mind, and hysterical. I stormed to her nursery and grabbed her fiercely from the cot and held her up in front of me, screaming at her to shut up.

She didn't. She got louder.

I took her to my own room, as good as threw her on the bed. I'd lost it by that point. I felt like crap, my life was in pieces, I'd got this stupid pathetic howling little person in front of me and it was all HIS fault. The bastard who had raped me a year earlier.

I hated him, for all the pain I was in, and for her pain too actually; it was his fault she existed after all. Everything about that night was his fault.

But he wasn't there. I couldn't take my hatred out on him. I couldn't tell him how much he'd hurt me and messed up my life.

So I told her. Took my hate out on her.

Mothers are meant to tell their children of the pretty, lovely, fluffy things in life. But that night, I told my three month old baby how it felt to be raped. How it felt to be violated. And about the intense crippling pain of having someone you don't want inside you. And when I was done with all that, I told her how those things had happened to me and now she was nothing but a reminder of it. Of them.

And that I hated her for it.

You can tell me she was a baby. You can tell me that she didn't understand. But I was there, drunk or not. I heard her wailing get more desperate, more heart rendering and believe me, she knew, and I knew, and the worst thing was, I couldn't have cared a less. I just wanted her to stop being so pathetic and shut the hell up.

Which was when I did it. I reached for the pillow and I brought it down over her and then brought my body down on top of it. Then I left it there, until the screams became cries and the cries became whimpers and the whimpers became silence.

Until I thought she was dead.

And then, let me tell you, that silence sobered me up more quickly than anything ever had in my life. And with the sobriety, came regret and feelings of disgust and horror and fear. I pulled myself up, did likewise with the pillow then leant over the edge of my bed and vomited before I'd even had chance to check she was ok.

Which she was of course. Because Olivia was strong and brave and a fighter who when I eventually found the courage to look back at her, just stared at me defiantly before letting out yet another bloodcurdling scream.

I didn't care anymore though. At that moment, noisy, screaming little madam or not, she was alive, and in spite of all the hatred, all the bile I'd spat at her that evening, I was glad of it. For both our sakes.

I bundled her in my arms trying to comfort her, trying to take her pain away, and as I did so I made a different decision, the decision that was that I was never, ever going to hurt her again.

I swore I wouldn't.

If only, quite frankly, if only.


	21. Hole

**This one has the longest quote of inspiration yet, and actually, the quote came before the word in this case because it fitted so perfectly what I wanted to say. On which note, if you've never seen The West Wing, check it out because its awesome!**

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**Hole**

_"This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out. A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by, 'Hey, Joe, it's me can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'" - Leo McGarry, The West Wing_

There's no worse feeling in the world for an alcoholic than meeting another. If they're sober, and you're not, you feel like a failure, if you're both drunk, its like looking into a particular vicious mirror, and if you're sober and they're not, well, it comes down to one of two things. Either you're jealous that they're pissed; jealous that they're experiencing that buzz, or else they're just a nasty reminder of the way you used to be; the way you could be again, if you just picked up that bottle.

Taking that into account, you have to wonder how the hell AA works. I wonder that often. Every time I meet a drunk and I don't take a drink. On days like today.

I think this one particularly got to me because she came into my home. Not my apartment, but my squad room - I call it home because I spend more hours there than I do anywhere else. Drunks don't usually get that far when they come to the precinct. Usually their access stops at the cells, in the drunk tank, but this one was someone special.

Someone special, to someone special.

Her arrival reached my attention the same way it did my detectives who worked in the bullpens beyond the door of my office, as she announced herself, not by name but by swaying in the squad room doorway, and slurring our her opening gambit.

"You sneaky little bitch."

I looked up, and recognised her instantly, but even if I hadn't the pieces would have fallen in to place seconds later when she stumbled towards the 'sneaky little bitch' she'd come to visit.

Detective Olivia Benson. My golden girl. Her daughter.

Olivia's eyes immediately darted in my direction, as she looked at me apologetically and then got to her feet, going over to her mother's side. She spoke quietly to her, wanting their conversation to be discreet for obvious reasons, but unfortunately for her, her mother had different ideas.

"You go to my doctor. You tell him I need help. How dare you? What exactly does it have to do with you? You're just an interfering little slut."

That did it, and I got to my feet myself. I wasn't going to stand for one of my detectives being abused in her own squad room, even if it was her mother doing the abusing. That said, I needn't have bothered, because quite predictably someone else got in there first.

Elliot.

He stepped in between Olivia and her mother, holding his hands up in an apparent attempt at looking non confrontational but he didn't really pull it off. "Mrs Benson, I'm going to have to ask you to step back."

"And I'm going to have to ask you what the hell it has to do with you?" Olivia's mother slurred back, "Have you fucked her yet? Is that why you think this is your business?"

By that point, I was at Olivia's side myself, and saw her face flush red at her mother's words. I also saw the way Elliot's entire body had tensed and knew I had to diffuse the situation rapidly. I stepped around Olivia, and around Elliot until I was facing Olivia's mother and staring into a mirror at a reflection I'd long since tried to forget.

"Ms Benson, I'm Captain Donald Cragen, we met in Central Park, remember?" I threw in the niceties in part to jog her memory and reintroduce myself, in part to remind her of my authority and in part just to try and calm her down, "Why don't you and Olivia take this into my office. You can have some privacy there."

She glared at me hostilely, my attempts to soothe her obviously having failed, "Why would I need privacy, the little bitch has obviously already told you all that I'm a drunk." I didn't need to be Einstein to guess how Elliot was responding to her words, so pushed my bulk backwards, wanting him to know that I was handling it and that he should back right off. Then I instinctively glanced at Fin, who was sat at his desk but with his fists clenched and told him something similar with my eyes. With my team in check, I turned my attention back to the woman in front of me.

"Come on," I said, gently, not wanting to rile her further, "Olivia has to work here. You don't want to embarrass her like this."

"Don't I?" Sparks as good as flew from her eyes, "She doesn't think twice about embarrassing me. She doesn't think twice about violating my medical rights and speaking to my doctor about me. Why should care a less whether I'm embarrassing her or not? Maybe I'm enjoying it."

I looked at her, wondering how best to handle her. I was a drunk myself, I ought to know what would go down well and what wouldn't. But before I could reach a solution and try it for size, a voice spoke from behind me.

"Mom… please…"

I don't know what was worse for me. Hearing Olivia, my gutsiest detective sounding so broken and vulnerable, or the knowledge that my own wife had had to speak to me that way so many times, and yet for so long, I'd done nothing, just let her go on suffering. Just as I suspected Olivia's mother was going to do to her. It was heart breaking to me, on so many levels.

But not to Ms Benson. Like the me of so many years before, she couldn't have cared a less.

"Mom… please… what?"

"You need help." Olivia's words, again whimpered and pitiful were followed up by a sob that ripped through the room, and yet still there was no let up.

"I need help? I'm not the one crying like a baby. I'm not fluttering my eye lashes at a married man in the hope of getting laid. I'm not on a personal crusade to rid the world of rapists because I can't stand who my father is. So who really needs help Olivia? Me or you?"

I swung round at that point, anticipating that Elliot would be about to explode and thinking that a shove backwards wouldn't be enough of a barricade second time around, but to my surprise he'd backed off, and was too busy comforting Olivia to give her mother the slap I expected him to think she deserved. I watched as he wrapped her in his arms, and she crumpled against him, looking more like a distraught child than the rough and tough detective I knew so well.

"She's pathetic." The words cut through the squad room, and through Olivia's sobs like a knife and at that point I was convinced that Elliot would finally retaliate but he was busy, and so it was left to Fin. But even he didn't use physical retaliation, instead just looking over at Ms Benson disparagingly.

"Lady, she's your kid, you did that to her, and you're calling HER pathetic? She's just trying to help you, and if you don't see that, then you really do have a problem."

She looked from Fin to Olivia and Elliot, a distant expression on her face, "She doesn't care about me. She just wants his sympathy."

Fin snorted, "Yeah, right, you just keep telling yourself that." He glanced at me, "Can I throw the drunken bitch out on her ass?"

I was tempted to say yes, more than ready to have the ghost of Christmas past out of my face where it had become a very unwelcome visitor, but ultimately the decision wasn't mine to make. I turned to Olivia whose tears had subsided although she was still leaning into Elliot, looking like her legs might disappear from under her at a moments notice or less. "Olivia, its up to you."

Unsteadily she walked towards me, then past me, until she reached her mother's side, then she grabbed her by her shoulders and held her tightly, forcing her to look into her eyes, "Mom… please… I don't want to lose you, please go into rehab."

"No."

There was a beat and then Olivia let out a wail comparable only to the kind I've heard from the relatives of murder victims on the notification of their deaths, before tumbling to the floor as I'd anticipated she might less than a minute before. Elliot, Fin and I, we all reached for her, and by the time she was settled back in Elliot's arms, and I looked around the room again, the mother was gone.

Of course that wasn't the end of the story. It was never gonna be. Not with a woman like Serena Benson involved. I knew how people like her, people like that, people like me, worked. Therefore I was non too surprised when Olivia came into my office a couple of hours ago, still looking pale and shaken, but with a weak yet hopeful smile on her face.

"She called?" I said gently, trying to keep my tone neutral.

Olivia nodded, "She's sobered up. She says she's sorry. She want to get help."

I looked into her eyes, trying to judge how she was feeling, trying to work out if she knew what I did, and she must have read my mind, because seconds later, she confirmed it for me.

"I know she doesn't really mean it. I know its just because she's feeling sorry for herself because of what happened today. But I have to try don't I? If she's willing to get help, I have to support her."

Her words almost came as a relief because I knew she was right. I knew she was right because I'd been there too. It was always easy enough to ask for help when you'd pissed people off, because what better way to placate them and get yourself outta the dog house. But that didn't mean you meant it. That didn't mean it would last.

And I wanted her to be prepared for that.

All the same, as I told her with a smile, "You've got to try."

She nodded, and then turned to go. She'd just reached the door when I called her back. She turned and looked at me questioningly.

"Um…" I cleared my throat uncertainly, "Olivia, I've never been in your shoes. But you know I know about this. I've been where your mother is, I know what it does to a person and how it makes them behave. So if you want to talk… just… you know, say so."

Again, she nodded, and smiled but I could see the tears pricking her eyes, and the lump in her throat that she had to swallow before she could respond, "Thanks Captain, that means a lot but," she added, staring down at the floor, "my mom isn't like you. She's been sick my whole life. I don't think she can get better."

"We're more alike than you think." I told her, "I could quite easily drink every day, every night."

She shrugged, "Yeah, but you don't Sir, and that's the difference."


	22. Revelation

**This is just a short one, but its about a moment that I'm sure I'll come back to at some point….**

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**Revelation**

_I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death - __**Revelation, 1. 18**_

"Did that kid bring the bible back?"

I look up from my book jacketing, distracted by the question from my colleague Nolene. "What kid?" I ask curiously. I run a Middle School library, and a Catholic school we may be, but we don't get many kids asking for our copy of the Bible at lunchtime. They get enough of that shoved down their throats in class. That's why it's a reference book; I'm always scared the rebellious ones will deface it if we trusted them enough to let them check it out.

"You know," Nolene replies, "that miserable looking one who looks like she'd benefit from a few home cooked dinners."

I glance around, looking for someone who might match the description but the library is empty save for a group of girls giggling over a medical encyclopaedia in the far corner. See, that's what a Catholic education does you! Eventually I spot the Bible laying discarded on of the tables and head over to retrieve it. It's open at the Book of Revelation but that's not what catches my attention. What catches my attention is a piece of crumpled notepaper that sits next to it, and when I unscrew the ball and read the inky scrawl that covers it the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Tutting I take the paper over to Nolene and hand it to her.

"What is this place coming to? Oldest kids we've got are only 14 and this is what they're writing?"

Nolene looks down at the piece of paper, shivers and then, after glancing round to check for prying ears, reads it out.

"**He was dead to her. He was her hell.**

**Then I came along as well.**

**She wants to forget. But how can she?**

**Now she has to look at me.**

**He is gone. But I'm still here. **

**To ruin her life. Each single year.**

**She says she wishes she was dead.**

**But I think that she means me instead.**

**I knew she was hurt but didn't know why.**

**Now I know, my life's a lie.**

**She spat those bad words at me.**

**And now, finally, the truth I see.**

**Rape is why I have a life,**

**And so as she drank I took the knife.**

**Held it to my legs and bled.**

**And wished and wished that I was dead.**

**Why did it have to be all about me?**

**Why did I have to hold the key?"**

She shivers again, "Vivid imagination someone's got."

Maybe, but I'm not convinced. Filth like that, it's got to come from somewhere and we've got a responsibility; its not just teachers who have to look out for the kid's welfare. I take Nolene by the arm and lead her to the lunch room which is a writhing throng of kids and activity.

"You see her?" I ask, and then wait as Nolene peers across the room. She takes her time, not that I blame her, they all look the same to me and then eventually she points to a skinny kid with the look of a bad attitude about her who's sat hunched up in one corner of the lunch room all alone.

I snort, "Well you can forget that. I'm not dealing with that one." I'd heard the talk in the teachers lounge, "The mother's a WASP, teaches at the university, was on the board of the little madam's elementary school and got half the staff fired. Intervene there? No thank you."

I take the disgusting poem from Nolene and look down at it again, shaking my head, "Probably something of nothing anyway but where do they get it from? That's what I'd like to know." I glance over at the girl again, at the dark circles under her eyes – the result of being asked to wash off ridiculous gothic make up no doubt. "You know she's new this year?" I told Nolene, "Not even twelve yet probably." I screw the poem into a ball, shaking my head sadly, "God knows what trouble she'll be getting herself into in a few years." I drop the ball of paper into a nearby waste bin, glad to be rid of it, "Still, not my problem, is it? Let the mother deal with her."


	23. Christmas

The last few of these have been Serena at her absolute worst, so I wanted to write one that showed her on one of her slightly better days! Prompt from Brittany.

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**Christmas**

_Gifts of time and love are surely the basic ingredients of a truly merry Christmas. ~ Peg Bracken_

"Merry Christmas Darling."

It was just after 8am and my mom was sat on the end of my bed, wearing a nightshirt with candy canes on it. Beside her was a stocking, and out of the top I could just see an orange and a bag of nuts poking out.

I shook my head sleepily. Something was really very wrong with this picture. I'd gone to bed the night before as normal and yet apparently had woken up in the middle of a Christmas movie.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes, completely confused. "Merry what?"

My mom smiled, "Merry Christmas silly. That is the usual refrain, isn't it?"

My first thought was that she was drunk but as she leaned in to hug me I was able to confirm that she wasn't, because I couldn't smell the usual stench on her breath. I was relieved, but still confused, and concerned that actually, finally, she'd lost it. I looked at her, a serious look on my face.

"Mom. It's the usual refrain in December. But we're in February. What's going on?"

She took me by the hand and led me from my bed, out of my bedroom and into the living room where…

"Holy shit!" I ignored the disapproving look my mom gave me – I learnt all the worst cuss words from her anyway – and stared around the room wide eyed, "Someone upchucked Christmas all over the living room."

Seriously. It was all there, the tree, the decorations, and gifts, piles of them. I was amazed but, even more so, puzzled.

"It's February." I said again.

My mom nodded, and I realised she was close to tears. I gripped her hand, "Mom? What's going on?"

She took a deep breath to steady herself, to get her emotions in check so she could speak, but when she did so, it was me who nearly ended up in tears.

"It is February. But in December I was face down in the Christmas tree, and you were curled up on your bed eating noodles for Christmas Dinner. It was a bad Christmas; the worst Christmas. I wanted us to try again. Can we?"

I blinked back the tears, completely conflicted. On one hand, this was my mom all over. She'd mess up time and time again and then want second chances. But at the same time, she'd gone to so much trouble and I did want the Christmas she'd laid on. I wanted it more than anything. I looked up at her, feeling, not for the first time in my life, way older than my 12 years.

"Are you gonna drink?"

She didn't wince at the question, instead just shook her head, "No." That ought to have been enough for me, but then this was my mother I was dealing with. My eyes narrowed,

"Not even with 'Christmas' dinner? Not even a glass of Champagne because it's," I made those speech mark things with my fingers, "Christmas?"

Again, she didn't seem angered by my question, which was odd, because she'd never liked my questioning her drinking in the past. Instead she just shook her head a second time.

"I said I wouldn't. I promise I won't." I didn't have anything to say to that. I'd heard her special kind of easy to break promises too many times in the past. "I've not had a drink since midnight on New Years Eve Olivia. I'm done with it."

Again, I'd heard it before. My mom had been in and out of rehab my whole life. And when she was dry, she was an ok mom, but the sad truth was it never lasted long. She always came off the wagon in the end. She must have noticed that I didn't look convinced because she pulled me round to face her, still holding my hands, and looked my right in the eyes.

"You know why I stopped right?"

I stiffened at her words. I knew alright. I remembered the night back in October when my world had come tumbling down; when she brought my world tumbling down. But that didn't mean I wanted to talk about it. At the time? Maybe. No, actually, definitely, but she'd been too out of it, too drunk, too wrapped up in everything that was wrong with her world to care how I felt. But now, it was too late. I'd done my hurting, done my suffering, I'd been all upset and confused and scared, and all on my own I'd found a way to move past it. To live with where I'd come from.

I wasn't going to talk to her about it four months later to make her feel better. She'd made her choice. She could have been my mom then, but she'd been a drunk instead.

All the same, I wanted her to know that I knew exactly why she'd stopped drinking, I wanted her to know I hadn't forgotten that lousy night and the 8 weeks that followed where she'd been out of it 24/7. I nodded slowly, and put on my most stern voice. The one I always use when I want people to take me seriously. "I know why you stopped. It took you too long but I'm glad you did it. But that doesn't mean I want to talk about it."

She gave me the look she always gives me when I use 'the voice', her 'you're just a kid and you shouldn't talk to me like that but I'm going to have to take it' look and then she did something she rarely does. She reached out and hugged me. Then she looked me in the eye again and smiled sadly,

"Ok. But you know I'm here, if you do want to talk about it."

I nodded, because she was my mom, and because it was 'Christmas' and because she'd made such a crazy effort trimming up the apartment over night, but there was no way I was ever going to talk to her about it. She'd had her chance. She'd blown it. Besides which any offer of help from my mom was only ever good for as long as it took her to get drunk again.

We let the subject drop, and I looked around the room once more, wondering how far 'pretend' Christmas was going to stretch. Would we have Christmas dinner? Play games? Or was it all going to be a mere façade like her usual motherly gestures. "So," I asked, trying to play it cool, "What are we doing today?"

My mom smiled, "Well how about presents, 'It's a Wonderful Life', lunch, 'Mary Poppins', Charades and then we could sit by the fire and read 'A Christmas Carol'. How does that sound?"

It sounded crazy. It sounded like no Christmas I'd ever had, yet every Christmas I'd ever coveted. And so, although I wanted to tell my mom there were no second chances, I just couldn't do it.

I hugged her, "It sounds amazing." I felt a lump rising in my throat that I swallowed quickly, because mom hates it when I cry nearly as much as I do. "Thank you."

My mom looked at me, squeezing my hands tightly, "You have nothing to thank me for Olivia."

On the whole, it was true, in fact it crossed my mind that never had a truer word been spoken, but at that moment I didn't want her to believe it.

"Don't say that." I whispered, "You can't talk like that at Christmas."

I thought mom was going to cry then, but she didn't, instead she got to her feet and went over to the Christmas tree where she selected a beautifully gift wrapped parcel and handed it to me. "Open this one first."

I took it, and ripped it open like the excited child I'd never really had the chance to be, and when I saw what was inside I was astounded for what felt like the millionth time that day.

It was a book. And I knew why she'd chosen it, but I didn't know how she'd known to do so. I looked at her questioningly,

"The History of the NYPD?"

She nodded, "I thought you might pick up some tips."

"How did you know?" I asked, sounding bemused. I'd not told her about my brand new dream of joining the police, even though I'd thought of nothing else for the last four months; even though it seemed like the answer to everything.

"I overheard you talking to Rosa." She explained, "You were asking her about how you'd apply."

I laughed, remembering our cleaner's funny answer, "She said the first thing I had to do was wait ten years." My mom laughed too but she quickly became serious again,

"Is this because of your father? Because of what I told you?"

My go at turning serious, at putting on 'my voice' again, "I don't have a father. And I told you, I don't want to talk about it. But," my voice softened as for the first time in as long as I could remember, I looked to my mom for approval, "What do you think? To my plan?"

She sat beside me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder, "Honestly? It scares the hell out of me, Olivia. But I'm proud of you, for making that decision. Anyway," she moved on, oblivious to the effect her words had had on me, "do you want another present?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but I couldn't. I was lost for words. And I certainly didn't need another present. My mom was proud of me. What more could I possibly ask for?


	24. Punishment

**Punishment**

_No one should be twice punished for one crime - Legal Maxim_

"Greg, darling. A word if you please?" I grimace inwardly, as Laverne Morris, our Vice Principal bears down on me. She's English, as eccentric as they come, and sees fit to flirt with me, which is always awkward since she's perilously close to sixty and really ought to know better. I'm tempted to walk on but I'm hoping to be made Head of Faculty any day now and she's on the selection panel so I think better of it.

"What can I do for you Laverne?"

She chuckles salaciously and I get the urge to vomit, in part because of what the chuckle implies but in part because she clearly bathed in scent that morning, and then she finally gets to the point. "I need someone to take Senior Staff detention tonight. I've got an appointment with my foot doctor."

I'm meant to be playing badminton after school, but I sense my hands are tied on this one, given my Head of Department aspirations. I nod, "Sure. No problem. What do you have for me?"

She smiles genially and pushes a sheet of paper into my hands, "Oh nothing much. Just the one inmate, I'm sure it'll be an absolute doddle for a man of your talents."

I glance down the paperwork she's given me, and instantly feel my heart sink.

Whatever a 'doddle' is, I suspect this isn't going to be one, not by a long shot.

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Detention. This has to be someone's idea of a joke. I get punished every day for being who I am, for having the audacity to live and yet 'they' think this is going to get to me? A nice quiet room to do my homework in? A reason not to have to go home? Sounds good to me.

I sit slumped at my desk, working on my math. Old Lady Morris is late, but there's nothing new there. She's never on time for anything. Doesn't bother me. I've got plenty to be getting on with. Mr Stevens has set me some neat quadratic equations to get my head round. I love quadratic equations nearly as much as I love Mr Stevens himself.

I'm deep in thought when I hear it. The sound of him clearing his throat from the door. I look up, surprised, yet delighted, to see him there.

"Hey…" I smile at him, forgetting for a moment where I am, and therefore I'm taken aback when I see the stern look on his face. Still that stern look quickly puts me in my place. I look away, embarrassed that he's found me here.

I hear him cross the class room to my desk then he stops, then he speaks.

"Student refused to remove make up. Twice. In spite of being asked by the Principal. Student subsequently swore at both the Principal and her Secretary."

I cringe inwardly as he reads out my detention slip. I wouldn't care if it was anyone else. I don't care what they think. But I care about him. I keep my gaze firmly on the list of quadratic equations on my desk. "Why are you here?"

"I could ask the same of you." he retorts as he drags a chair up beside mine and sits down next to me, "But I already know. You were belligerent and rude and disrespectful."

I open my mouth to point out that he hasn't answered my question, and that I'm still none the wiser as to why he's supervising a Senior Staff detention, but he speaks first and silences me.

"And you know what Liv, that doesn't sound like you. So," the quadratic equations in front of me are replaced with a bottle of make up remover and pile of cotton wool, "take that muck off your face and talk to me."

I sigh, and although it's the last thing I want to do, I look up at him, stubbornly and angrily, giving him attitude I reserve for teachers who aren't him. "No. Forget it." He looks disappointed, and I hate the fact that I've made him feel that way, but it's a self preservation thing. There's nothing else I can do right now. No other way I can behave.

He picks up the bottle, unscrews the cap and squeezes its contents on to a wad of the cotton wool. For one horrible minute I think he's going to try and take the make up off himself but instead he just pushes the cotton wool into my hand, "Take it off, and I'll let you go home."

I snap then, pissed at him for being just like the rest of them. For not getting it.

"I don't want to go home you prick." Yeah, I know, it was harsh. But he ought to know better. Should know better. We've talked about it enough, he knows how much I hate going home, so why would he think getting to go there would be some big rewa-

Ah. I get it. Silly me. I was missing the point. "You know I don't want to go home." I say softly, looking up and seeing the concern in his eyes. "You're trying to provoke me into talking."

He nods slowly, "I want to know what's going on Liv. And more to the point, what can I do to help?"

I want to tell him. I want to tell him so badly because I know then he'll understand completely and stop being disappointed in me. But how can I? There are some things that are meant to stay a secret. So I don't break down, I toughen it out, rack up my attitude a few more notches.

"You can stop fricking telling me to take my make up off. You never normally care."

He reaches out and slips his hand under my chin, using it to tilt my face upwards towards the light. I'm at school with girls who would cry rape for less, but this is Mr Stevens, who I know cares about me so I just let him, although offering silent words of prayer to a God that I don't believe in that he won't notice what I'm trying so hard to hide.

He lets my chin go and just stares at me for a long time and then, "I let you get away with wearing make up because you do such a good job of it. Its always delicate, subtle… mature. You look very pretty." I feel myself blush at his words, at the very obvious compliment. I'm so touched, that my defences start to fall, start to fall that is, until he speaks again. "But Liv, today, you look so many other girls… you just look trashy."

Trashy is bad. Being 'just like the other girls' is bad. But nothing is as terrible as what comes next, as he gently reaches out to touch my cheek, as he finally comes to the truth,

"Liv sweetheart, what are you hiding under there?"

*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***

She starts to cry then, burying her head in her hands, and I feel like an utter shit for pushing her so hard. But then, as she lifts her head again and wipes the tears from her face I realise I was right to.

Because as she wipes away the tears, the make up comes too and suddenly I'm confronted by what she was trying to hide all along…

A large, purple bruise on her cheek.

And then it all comes tumbling out.

*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***

It happened two nights earlier. Or Day 5. Day 5 of my mom attempting, not for the first time in my sad miserable life, to be sober. I'd known all along it wouldn't work, it never does, but I supported her anyway, because she was so full of hope and so full of resolve and it would have been rude not to.

I'd got in from school to find a message saying that she had a dinner at the university. That was a bad sign to begin with. My mom is the worlds most appalling 'social drinker' because she never knows when to stop, but I knew if she was looking for an excuse to start drinking, a dinner, a 'social drink' would be where she'd start.

All the same, what could I do? I didn't even know where she was eating, so instead I settled down at the kitchen table to get on with my homework, then ate leftovers for dinner then headed into the living room to watch some TV.

I must have fallen asleep, cos next thing I knew it was nearly midnight and my mom was banging on the front door of the apartment because she couldn't find her key. I got up, let her in and that was when the fun started.

She was drunk, and I suppose I should have been disappointed but, what would have been the point. She'd gone, she'd done it, she was off the wagon. It wasn't like it was a new experience for me. I helped her out of her coat, thinking that I could help her into bed and then turn in myself but before I could she was pulling a bottle of scotch out of her briefcase.

And that did for me. It was more than I could take. Because, like her, I'd almost convinced myself that a 'social drink' was ok; was acceptable. Never mind if she couldn't walk in a straight line or find her door key (it was in her coat pocket) as long as it was from social drinking.

A bottle of scotch though, that didn't signify social drinking. Especially not since I knew where she was intending to go and drink it. In her study. Alone. And that was when I snapped.

"Mom?" That got her attention, then all that was left for me to do was take the bottle away. Which actually, was easier than I thought it would be. I guess the alcohol slowed her reactions.

But once the bottle was in my arms, that's when the night goes into slow mo. She turned on me furiously, demanded to know what the hell I thought I was playing at. I'd never seen her so angry. I mean, she shouts at me a lot, but I'm used to that. This was just… she was out of control. Like an animal. And yet, I wanted to say my piece. I was scared, but I wanted to have my say. I wanted to tell her that it was ok she'd drunk socially, but that she shouldn't cross the line. She should go to bed, and get up the next day and be sober all over again. But whatever she did, she really shouldn't drink the Scotch.

I'd barely got out the first 3 words when her fist made contact with the side of my face; her knuckles meeting my cheek bone with a sickening crack.

I stumbled backwards, fell into the grandfather clock. She saw her chance and took the bottle from her arms.

But she didn't mean to do it. It wasn't her fault. I mean, I took her drink away when she really needed it. So it was my fault. Not hers.

I was the one who needed to be punished.

*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***

Not for the first time, I break all the rules and move to hold her. She leans into my arms, shaking violently as sobs wrack her body. I stroke her hair, trying to soothe her, and pray like hell that no one's about to walk in the room.

Eventually her tears slow and she looks up at me, through red and blotchy eyes, "You can't tell anyone."

"I have to." I reply. I'd covered for her mother in the past, kept secrets that I ought to have divulged to the powers that be, but there was no sitting on this, on physical abuse. I know she won't like it, but I have a responsibility as her teacher to protect her.

She pulls away from me then, an angry look on her face, "Well thanks a lot. I thought we were friends."

God she makes it sound so simple, but I suppose I only have myself to blame for affording her so much confidentiality in the past. That said, she isn't finished with me.

"If you go to Children's Services, nothing will happen. She's got money, the accusations will go away. But she'll use it as an excuse to drink more, and my relationship with her will be even more lousy than it is now. So please… don't do this to me, because it won't make things better, it'll make them worse. And anyway, she won't hit me again…"

Her loyalty to her mother, not mention her childlike insistence that it wouldn't happen again nearly breaks my heart. "How do you know she won't?" I ask, hesitantly, not sure I'll like the answer.

Olivia reaches for the detention slip I read to her earlier and hands it to me, "You know why I had a run in with the Principal yesterday?"

A trick question? "Erm, you had too much make up on?"

She nods, "Yeah. I had too much make up on. But the Principal wouldn't have seen me, except for the fact I was late for school and needed to sign in and she was in reception."

I'm lost, but suspect she has a point that either I'm missing or else she's just not yet got to, "Why were you late?"

"My mom stopped me leaving the house. She thought my make up was trashy too."

*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***

I watch and wait as the pieces fall into place for him. Luckily he's a smart cookie and gets to the point quickly enough.

"She made you wash it off? Saw the bruise underneath?"

I nod, "Yup. She forgot she did it. So that was humiliating for her." I laugh a little at that point, not because its particularly funny but out of awkwardness at the memory. There she was, going completely postal on me because of my slutty make up and all the time it was only on like that because of her.

"What did she say?" Mr Stevens asks gently, being just so perfectly adorable that I'd melt back into his arms again if I don't think he might get fired as a result.

I bite my bottom lip and swallow a huge lump that's suddenly in my throat. For some reason I'm finding this a whole lot harder than I thought I would.

"She cried, Mr Stevens. She cried. And she said she was sorry. Then she helped me put my make up back on again."

He reaches out and cuddles me again, but he's got a serious look on his face, "Liv, I have to report this. it's the rules."

I look down at his arm around me, his hand gently caressing my shoulder and then look back up at him pointedly, "But Sir, aren't some rules just made to be broken?"

*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***

From any other kid, it might have been a threat. But not from Liv, I know she doesn't mean it that way. All she's saying, all she's implying, is that she's not like the other kids. She means more to me, and I will go the extra mile for her, even if that means bending the rules.

And so, I promise her I'll drop it. I promise her there will be no repercussions.

But then, because I care for her, and - more importantly - because I have a professional responsibility for her, I dismiss her, I get in my car and I drive to the university.

I find her in her office, at her desk, and as I enter the room she looks up, startled. After our earlier meetings I expect my arrival to be met with some hostility, but in actual fact, she shows me none. Instead, she just looks at me with fear in her eyes,

"She told you."

I nod, "Yes."

Her eyes fill with tears then, and I can't help noticing that when she's crying she bears a resemblance to her daughter that I'd not noticed in the past. "You're going to report me?"

I take a deep breath, still unsure that I'm doing the right thing, but then I picture Liv, picture her desperation to make things right. And then I know.

"No." I move closer to the desk, registering her surprise, and then finally I unleash what I really came to say, "But Ms Benson, if you hurt her again. If you so much as look at her the wrong way, I'll not only report you, but I'll guarantee you NEVER see her again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Of course." She answers so promptly, so passionately, that it surprises me. She's not just agreeing to save her own bacon, as I predicted. She's agreeing because she loves her daughter.

Crazy as that sounds considering everything she's done.

Its only as I reach the door that she speaks again, "Thank you Mr Stevens."

I shrug, "Don't thank me. Thank Olivia."


End file.
